The Robots of Andromeda (Imperium Chronicles Book 3)

by W. H. Mitchell

  Against his better judgment, the Abbot of the Dharmesh Monastery had not left yet. Even without reading the Erudite ambassador’s mind, which was against the laws and traditions of his people, the Abbot was skeptical of whatever he was proposing. People without pointed ears, or any ears for that matter, couldn’t be trusted.

  The embassy library had a high ceiling with bookcases reaching all the way to the top. The Abbot admired the sheer number of books, each made from real paper, but he assumed the Erudites also had the contents backed up electronically somewhere. The Dharmesh Monastery used a liquid computer called the Pool of Memory, a bucket of which could hold more information than all of the books in this library combined. The old monk felt pity for the Erudites, seeking knowledge but lacking the storage capacity to hold it.

  Sad, really, he thought.

  The rest of the library was taken up by uncomfortable-looking chairs and couches with a few tables on which books were laying unattended. It was surprisingly open, the Abbot concluded, with the bookcases set into the walls instead of freestanding in the center. The guests had ample room to mingle while the ambassador and his staff assembled on one end.

  When he was ready, Ambassador Abaru again raised his three-fingered hand and the others quieted out of respect.

  “Thank you again for coming,” he said. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

  Get on with it then, the Abbot thought.

  “My people are a contrast,” the ambassador began. “We seek knowledge about the worlds around us but keep the people of those worlds at arm’s length. The Erudites have a long history of perfection, starting with our children and continuing with our society. We have often viewed other cultures with distrust, as if their impurity could somehow sully ours...”

  The Prior whispered in the Abbot’s ear. “Is he trying to insult us?”

  “Shush,” the elder monk replied.

  “But I believe this was wrong,” Abaru continued. “Our suspicions have hampered our studies, preventing us from expanding our knowledge and our abilities.”

  “What kind of abilities?” the Abbot asked, drawing stares from the other guests.

  “I’m glad you asked,” Abaru said, nodding. “Everyone here shares a common characteristic. We are all blessed with the psionic arts.”

  The Abbot gave a sideways glance at the Sarkan delegation. “Some of us more than others...”

  “Shut up, collaborator!” one of the Sarkan shouted back.

  “If you can’t beat them, join them,” the Abbot replied calmly. “We have better things to do than fighting.”

  “Please,” Abaru said. “I realize there are conflicts among you, but there are many things in common as well. Together you are strong, are you not?”

  The guests grumbled in low tones without consensus. Several crossed their arms and frowned or shook their heads.

  “What I propose,” the ambassador said, “is an alliance of sorts. As species with psi powers, we should combine our knowledge and our skills so that we can all benefit from them...”

  “He’s lying,” Demona hissed at Ramus, her blue eyes blazing with cold fire.

  “What?” Ramus replied, turning his head toward her while keeping one eye on the Erudite ambassador a few feet away. “He sounds reasonable enough.”

  The Abbot, ignoring scowls from the Sarkan, spoke up, “What do you intend to do with this knowledge, Ambassador?”

  “To improve my people,” Abaru said. “The Dahl have studied psionics for thousands of years. The Erudites could only benefit from such learning. In return, we could share our knowledge as well.”

  The Abbot gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

  “My people, and my Monastery in particular,” he replied, “do not share our knowledge so easily. The arts we teach are for the Dahl, not ones like yourself.”

  This time a Sarkan laughed with scorn. “You seem perfectly willing to share with the humans!”

  “It’s true that we have shared our wisdom,” the Abbot retorted, “but never our psionics. Such abilities are too destructive for humanity, considering their proclivities...”

  “Then you should be fighting them too, not collaborating!” the Sarkan shouted.

  “That is not the Dahlvish way...” the old monk replied.

  “There is no need to fight among ourselves,” Ambassador Abaru said. “Nothing is gained by arguing. We can work together—”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” the Abbot said, motioning to the others in his group. “Thank you for your hospitality, but we must return to the Monastery.”

  Sweeping their golden robes behind them, the Dharmesh monks headed toward the library exit and the courtyard beyond. The remaining guests, speaking in loud tones among themselves, seemed eager to leave as well.

  “Please,” the ambassador said. “Perhaps we can still come to a consensus...”

  Ramus raised his voice above the clamor of the others leaving, so Demona could hear.

  “Well, that went badly,” he said, nearly shouting. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “He knew it would fail,” she replied.

  “Who?”

  “The ambassador.”

  “Then why go to the trouble?” Ramus asked.

  Before Demona could answer, several of the Erudites appeared between them and the departing crowd, blocking Ramus and Demona from leaving.

  “Ambassador Abaru wishes an audience,” one of the Erudites said.

  “Sorry,” Demona replied, “we must be going...”

  The tattoos beneath Ramus’ sleeves began glowing, the sensation like hot oil across his skin. The material of his sleeves ripped, thick fur poking through the tears. Everyone, including Ramus, was silent as they watched the nails of his fingers turning into claws.

  “No, Ramus!” Demona said, but the Wanderer’s captain returned her gaze with shock.

  “I’m not doing it!” Ramus shouted before his mouth filled with fangs.

  Ambassador Abaru parted the other Erudites, taking his place in front of them. “He’s under my control.”

  Ramus growled at Demona, flexing his claws threateningly.

  “Of course, I would have preferred to control both of you,” Abaru said to Demona, “but it appears you’ve had some mechanical augmentations that prevent me...”

  “Why are you doing this?” Demona asked.

  “I felt you probing my thoughts,” Abaru replied. “We Erudites have complete mastery of our bodies, including our minds. Your intrusion was as unmistakable as it was unwanted. In some ways, you’re nothing but a thief, breaking into my head and stealing what is rightfully mine.”

  Demona smirked. “Stealing secrets is what I do for a living.”

  The Ambassador shook his head. “But I’m afraid not for much longer...”

  Ramus watched the scene unfold like a bystander. The movement of his limbs, a thing he normally took for granted, was no longer under his control. He struggled against it, concentrating on each muscle in his arms and legs, but he had become nothing more than a marionette with someone else holding the strings.

  Ramus roared and lunged toward Demona who dove to the side, rolling out of the monster’s way.

  Turning around, Ramus made another charge.

  Her hands crackling with energy, Demona stood her ground and opened her mouth. From within, a horde of insects came pouring out like water from a fire hose. The rush of flying bugs struck Ramus in the chest, knocking him backwards off his feet.

  Ramus felt the pain of hitting the floor, but a voice in his mind was screaming to get up. He strained to stay down, but he had no choice. His claws scraped against the white marble as he scrambled to his feet.

  The insects, which had been swarming moments before, faded away into nothing, evaporating into thin air. Demona changed the position of her arms. Wisps of shadowy darkness, sprouting from her palms, darted across the room like black ribbons of miasma. They curled around the Erudites, entwining their bodies.

  Screams erupt
ed behind Ramus but he couldn’t turn his head to see. Without warning, he once again fell to the ground, but this time stayed down. Slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep, Ramus felt the paralysis of his body finally easing.

  He rolled to his side. Opposite of Demona, where the Erudites had been standing, shapes were lying sprawled on the floor. Although their clothing was intact, their blue skin had turned a sickly gray with lesions covering most of it. Each body — dead, Ramus hoped — lay in a greenish-yellow puddle of fluid.

  He didn’t see the ambassador, or whatever was left of him.

  “He ran off,” Demona said, reading his mind. “But I left him with something to remember me by...”

  When Demona and Ramus returned to Solan’s hideout, he listened intently to what they had discovered.

  “The Erudites are obsessed with perfection,” Solan said after they finished. “I’m sure whatever disfigurement you gave the ambassador will ruin his career.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” Demona remarked wryly.

  “Well, not anymore...” Solan replied.

  Ramus, restlessly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossed his arms. “Are we done here?”

  “Why don’t you stick around?” Solan said. “It’ll be like old times.”

  Demona gave the Wanderer’s captain a sideways glance, waiting for his reply.

  “No,” Ramus said.

  “The old times weren’t that bad, were they?” Demona asked.

  Ramus, who had already changed back into his regular clothes, pulled a set of earrings out of a pocket and began inserting them back into his ears.

  “Times change,” he said. “People do too.”

  Demona’s eyes narrowed, her gaze shifting to the tapestries hanging in the room.

  “Alright, Rowan,” Solan said. “You’re free to go, but I’ll be sure to let you know when I need you again.”

  “Don’t make a habit of it,” Ramus replied. He walked away, disappearing down the hall toward the alley entrance.

  “You should probably go too,” Solan told Demona. “The client is arriving soon and I’d rather meet him alone.”

  Still scowling, she nodded and left by a different way than Ramus. Alone, Solan smiled like a cat with a canary.

  A half hour later, the hidden doorway from the alley opened and someone came slowly down the corridor into the main room.

  Solan was waiting.

  “So nice to see you again,” he said.

  In his amber robes, the Abbot of the Dharmesh Monastery stood alone and with a frown.

  “You made it quite clear I had to appear in person,” the elderly monk replied.

  “Well, considering the delicacy of the information you had us acquire, I felt it only fitting.”

  “I’m told there was an altercation after I left?”

  “Yes, but nothing my people couldn’t handle,” Solan said.

  “I hope the incident won’t become a problem,” the Abbot replied grimly.

  “I doubt the Erudites will raise a fuss. Of course, you could have simply gathered the information yourself.”

  The Abbot lowered his eyes. “You know my people wouldn’t allow that. Reading minds is strictly prohibited.”

  “And yet,” Solan said, raising his eyebrows, “you’re perfectly willing to hire us to do it.”

  “We do what we must—”

  “Especially if it means avoiding getting your fingers dirty...”

  The Abbot’s expression grew even darker. “Do you have something for me or not?”

  “Indeed I do!” Solan said. “It appears Ambassador Abaru wasn’t being entirely truthful.”

  “I expected as much.”

  “In fact, his proposal of an alliance was a ruse to gain your trust,” Solan went on. “The Erudites have been perfecting their powers of mind control and they intended to use it against you and the others.”

  “To what end?”

  “For power, mostly,” Solan said, “but also to gain knowledge. My agent saw a strong desire in the ambassador’s thoughts concerning the Pool of Memory at the Dharmesh Monastery. He would have sucked it dry of whatever he could learn from it.”

  The monk’s face turned more thoughtful than angry. “That would have been a disaster.”

  “I can imagine,” Solan said. “I’m sure your liquid computer contains all sorts of secrets the Dahl would rather keep hidden. I wouldn’t mind getting a crack at it myself, actually.”

  “But you never will, Solan,” the Abbot growled. “You’ll never set foot in my Monastery!”

  Solan’s grin became tighter.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said. “But having you come to me like this makes it all worthwhile.”

  The Abbot snorted and turned to leave.

  “Until next time,” Solan called after him, watching the monk’s robes flow away down the hall.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hearing his sister’s voice again made Pol realize just how much he had missed her. The giant didn’t know how the device worked, but he didn’t care. Like a lantern made from concentric disks of crystal, it glowed brighter as Pol grew nearer and filled the air with Cas’ singing. Whatever it was, Pol was grateful and carried it back with him to the cavern that he and his sister called home.

  Next to the fire, the relic reflected the flames in its glass-like structure, the light dancing on the walls of the cave. Pol spent many nights staring into the shimmering brightness, remembering the times his family had spent in front of the fire, sharing the music together. Although Pol was alone, his sister still in a comatose state, this was the closest he could get to the way things had been before he lost it all.

  Years passed, and Pol survived day to day by hunting and living off whatever scraps the land would provide. Getting older, he was no longer as bold as he had been in his youth. His fights with the Pellions became rarer, perhaps because a new group had appeared and drove the old enemy away. Pol hunted these new creatures too. They had hooves like the Pellions, but horns instead of antlers, and made strange bleating noises when they died. Even so, the giant kept his distance most of the time, preferring to attack only occasionally.

  Wrapped in pelts, Pol kept to the cavern at night and rested his tired bones by the campfire. He still had his sister’s singing to keep him company, but even so, the loneliness of constant solitude wore at his spirit.

  On one of the days Pol was out hunting, a storm erupted across the steppes, soaking the giant in the cold rain. He was looking forward to getting back to the cavern when he nearly stumbled over a body sprawled beside a swollen creek. Pol stopped and knelt next to the creature. Covered in mud, it appeared drowned at first but after Pol gave it a firm nudge, the body made a gasping wheeze like a bladder leaking air. Out of curiosity, the giant threw the sack of flesh and bones over his shoulder and brought it home so he could get a better look at it.

  In the firelight, Pol realized it was one of the off-worlders that sometimes made the mistake of coming too close. Normally, Pol would simply give it a good clubbing, but he paused. They made for poor eating, and this one was especially scrawny, but that wasn’t the reason. The giant felt a certain pity for this one, like a bird with a broken wing. He didn’t have the heart to kill it, let alone cook it over the fire.

  Pol made up his mind to keep it. He had always wanted a pet.

  Devlin Maycare’s shirt was ruined and he wasn’t happy about it. Of course, he had dozens of linen shirts made for him by a tailor in Regalis, but the circumstances of losing this one were particularly galling.

  Maycare and Jessica Doric had gotten separated from the rest of their party. Normally, this would have been another opportunity for Maycare to look heroic in the presence of the professor, but the rain and the battle around them made this prospect difficult, not to mention hazardous. He had no doubt that everything would work out, as it always did for him. However, the sheer number of Beastmen appearing from the mist posed several obstacles, one of which being death.

&nbs
p; Taking a spear from a fallen Pellion, Maycare parried the first Feran, striking him squarely below the chin with a satisfying crack. The second Feran was less eager, preferring to deflect Maycare’s thrusts before dying at the end of the spear anyway. Doric picked up a sword, but her lack of military training put her at a disadvantage. Maycare, while attending classes at Westford, had learned a great deal about fencing and general hand-to-hand combat.

  Maycare made a mental note to have Benson remind him to enroll Jess in a few courses. It was painful to see her hold a sword like that. Just painful.

  Another warrior appeared and interrupted Maycare’s thought. The Beastman’s dagger ripped a gaping tear across Devlin’s linen shirt.

  “Blast it!” Maycare said and knocked the Feran unconscious with the butt of his spear.

  “Are you alright?” Doric asked.

  Maycare examined the rip, threads dangling loosely around the tattered edges. Also, he was bleeding.

  “Now I look ridiculous!” he huffed.

  Doric, her own wet hair hanging past her shoulders, shook her head. “You were already soaked.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing, Jess! I have standards to keep, you know...”

  “Let’s worry about finding Henry and the others,” she replied.

  “Fine...”

  For the next hour, the two meandered through the rain and mud, hoping to discover those they had lost. Maycare had almost reached the point of doubting himself when the ragged flashes of light ahead created a beacon they could follow. When they arrived at the source, they found a Feran holding an electrified mace over Sir Golan, lying in the grass.

  “Stop!” Maycare shouted.

  The Feran warrior halted, his weapon hanging above Sir Golan’s body.

  “Who the hell are you?” the Beastman yelled back.

  “Devlin Maycare!”

  “Who?”

  Maycare’s eyebrow rose in surprise. “Lord Devlin Maycare!”

  “Never heard of you,” the Feran said.

  Maycare glanced at Doric who merely shrugged.