The Robots of Andromeda (Imperium Chronicles Book 3)

by W. H. Mitchell

  “What the hell?” Tagus shouted as the marines pulled him from the bunk and placed his wrists in restraints behind his back.

  “What’s going on?” Burke asked sleepily through the cell wall.

  “I’m being rousted out of bed!” Tagus replied.

  “Is this it?” Burke asked. “Are they taking you to be executed?”

  “Of course not!” Tagus said, his expression changing from anger to alarm. “Are you?”

  The marines remained silent, each grabbing the disgraced lord by an arm and hauling him out of the cell. As they passed in front of Burke, the former lieutenant saluted his former commanding officer.

  “Be brave!” Burke said.

  “Of course I will, you idiot!” Tagus replied, his feet slightly dragging across the floor.

  Although the possibility of facing a firing squad or, even worse, being sent out of an airlock, had occasionally occurred to Tagus during his incarceration on the Baron Lancaster, the very real possibility of it actually happening had not. Being nearly carried by the marines into an awaiting lift tube, watching the doors close, and feeling the movement of the elevator gave Tagus ample time to think about it now.

  It was not sitting well, and Tagus wondered if he would be sick.

  When the doors opened again, he felt a certain relief when, instead of a squad of soldiers holding blasters, Tagus recognized with disdain Lord Captain Redgrave and his crony, Lord Commander Maycare. They appeared to be on the bridge.

  “Bring him here,” Redgrave ordered.

  The marines obeyed, pulling Tagus across the deck until he was standing beside the slightly raised dais where the captain and commander stood.

  “What do you want, Redgrave?” Tagus hissed.

  “Shut up and look,” the captain replied, pointing at the main screen where a live view, possibly from a hovering drone, showed the surface of a planet. A few hundred feet in the air, the drone’s camera panned around, giving a glimpse of a farm of some sort, long tendrils of green covering most of the buildings. A reddish tint bathed the landscape while small particles fluttered by the lens.

  “Where is this?” Tagus asked.

  “It is, or was, an Imperial colony called Lone Haven,” Redgrave replied.

  Realizing the significance, Tagus straightened, his face brightening with victory.

  “I told you!” he shouted triumphantly. “You wouldn’t listen, but I told you!”

  “Take him back to his cell,” Redgrave replied, his eyes like slits and his face turning red. “Get him out of my sight!”

  “Wait,” Maycare said. “Are you sure this is what you saw on Bhasin?”

  “Of course,” Tagus replied. “I said they would come here—”

  Maycare cut him off.

  “Then what are those things?” the commander asked, gesturing toward column-like towers on the screen.

  “Hives,” Tagus replied. “Where they breed more of those insects.”

  “Are you sure?” Redgrave asked.

  “Well, that’s what Lieutenant Burke thinks anyway,” Tagus said skeptically. “How should I know what they are?”

  The captain nodded to the marines who once again dragged Tagus toward the elevator. This time, he smiled broadly.

  Down a dark hallway, a thick door led to the Abbot’s study inside the Dharmesh Monastery. Bookcases stuffed with tomes, tablets, and scrolls made the modestly sized room rather cramped, and a desk in the middle didn’t help. Of course, the elderly monk was not opposed to technology and the Abbot kept several datapads on the desk as well. Sitting behind it, the old monk was perusing a collection of Dahlvish poetry when he heard a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” the Abbot commanded.

  The Prior stuck his head in with an expression of distaste.

  “The humans have arrived,” he said, making room for Jessica Doric and Henry Riff to enter.

  “That’ll be all,” the Abbot said, and the Prior closed the door.

  Wearing a light coat and sensible shoes, Jessica Doric smiled and thanked the Abbot for giving them an audience. Just behind her, Henry wore a shirt with a stain on it just below his chin. He carried a leather box, about a foot tall, with a closed lid.

  “Think nothing of it,” the Abbot replied generously.

  Doric glanced over her shoulder at the now closed door.

  “I don’t think the Prior likes having us here,” she remarked.

  “Don’t mind him,” the old monk said. “He prefers the company of other Dahl, and sometimes not even them.”

  Besides the chair the Abbot was already using, the room lacked anywhere else to sit so the humans remained standing. While realizing this was rude, the Abbot usually preferred his meetings to be brief. Also, the scarcity of space made additional furniture impractical.

  “Is that it?” he asked, gesturing toward the box in Henry’s hands.

  Doric glanced at her assistant who placed the box gingerly onto the desk. Taking a step back, Henry waited for Doric to do the honors of opening it. She pulled a tab made of ribbon on the top of the box, lifting the lid before handing it to Henry. Reaching in, Doric removed the artifact from inside and placed it on the desk.

  The Abbot admired the object, shaped like a lantern, before finally speaking.

  “Well,” he said, “I really have no idea what it is.”

  The faces of both humans fell.

  “Now, now,” the Abbot went on, “that doesn’t mean we can’t find out...”

  “I hope so,” Doric said, recovering her smile. “I doubt anyone else could.”

  “You’re too kind,” the Abbot replied. “I would say it appears to be Dahlvish in design.”

  “Really?” Doric asked.

  “Yes, I believe so, although very old indeed. You said you found it in the Pellium system?”

  “That’s right,” Henry replied.

  “Well, that’s a bit far away from our home world,” the Abbot said, “but we were once much more adventurous as you know.”

  “You were?” Henry asked.

  “Indeed,” the old monk replied. “The Dahl had an expansive empire many centuries ago, but we eventually learned such things are fleeting. We turned inward instead of outward, leaving our former holdings for others to fight over.”

  “Seems like waste,” Henry remarked, drawing a scolding look from Doric.

  “Not at all!” the Abbot said. “We’ve gained far more from our search for knowledge than we ever did from conquest.”

  “Speaking of which,” Doric said, “do you think we can ask the Pool of Memory about the artifact?”

  The Abbot rubbed his wisps of gray hair while a wry look crossed his face.

  “You know the Prior would disapprove,” he replied, “but I’ve grown rather fond of you these past months, Miss Doric. It’s rare to find a human so interested in Dahlvish history. People are usually more keen about their own past!”

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  “Is that a yes?” Henry asked.

  Just off the bridge, Captain Redgrave and Lieutenant Commander Maycare gathered in the captain’s office. Redgrave’s face burned crimson with anger.

  “Damn that Tagus!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the desk. “Only he could bring a new front to this war when half the fleet is already deployed to fight the Cyber Collective...”

  “If the Magna Supremacy decides it’s a good time to test our defenses,” Maycare remarked, “they’ll find the border barely guarded.”

  “Rupert was always a petulant little prick,” the captain went on, gritting his teeth. “If it wasn’t for his father, he never would’ve gotten command of the HIMS Gorgon. I thought we had finally seen the last of him and now this!”

  Maycare crossed his arms. “So, what are we going to do?”

  Redgrave leaned back in his chair, rubbing his beard. “Flush him out an airlock?”

  “No,” Maycare said, “I meant with this insect horde...”

  The intercom buzzed.

&n
bsp; “Lord Captain,” the voice of the tactical officer said, “we have multiple contacts on sensors, approaching at high speed.”

  “How many?” Redgrave asked.

  “It’s a mass of ships,” the officer replied, “possibly in the hundreds, maybe thousands.”

  With the lieutenant commander in tow, the captain burst through the doorway from his office and onto the command deck.

  “Put it on screen!” Redgrave ordered.

  At the front of the bridge, the wraparound monitor displayed a moving cloud like a flock of birds, its shape shifting every few seconds. Light from the local star reflected brightly against the hulls of countless, tiny ships.

  “Battle stations!” the captain shouted, taking a seat in the command chair. Maycare consulted the computer screen at his own station.

  “The ships aren’t in our database,” Maycare said, “but there’s a lot of them!”

  “No response to hails or transponder codes,” the tactical officer replied. “Sensors show the ships are fighter-sized but aren’t metallic or composite.”

  “Then what are they made from?” Redgrave asked.

  “Some kind of organic material,” the officer said. “It’s like the ships were grown instead of built.”

  Redgrave raised an eyebrow. “Like a plant?”

  “Or a fungus,” Maycare remarked.

  “Hell’s bells!” the captain replied. “Blast them as soon as they come into range.”

  Like a fog bank, the swirling mass of ships descended on the Baron Lancaster. Each craft, shaped like a teardrop of interlaced fibers, moved in unison with the ships around it in a choreographed dance. Moving as one, they weaved back and forth in their approach until, reaching the proper distance, beams from the Lancaster greeted them with flashes of destruction. Cutting through the cloud, the plasma rays slashed at the horde of ships like a red-hot knife, but for each Klixian fighter destroyed, dozens more filled the gaps in the curtain falling on the warship.

  Inside the Dharmesh Monastery, the courtyard was just how Jessica Doric remembered it. A chilling wind blew down from the surrounding mountains and a round pool, bordered by cut stones, took up the center of the space. The liquid in the pool glimmered with an inner light.

  The Abbot, who accompanied Doric and Henry, motioned with a grand gesture.

  “The Pool of Memory!” he proclaimed.

  “We’ve been here before,” Henry remarked, wrapping his shivering arms around himself. “It’s a liquid computer—”

  “But we’re very grateful to see it again,” Doric said quickly.

  “Of course,” the Abbot replied and waved his hand over the liquid.

  From the pool, a vaguely feminine shape rose slowly until only her feet were still submerged. Almost transparent, her body was smooth like a sculpture carved from water, droplets falling from her outstretched arms.

  “Naiad,” the Abbot said, addressing the shape, “we have questions for you...”

  A protrusion, forming lips, opened on the Naiad’s face. “My pleasure.”

  Doric, who had been holding the artifact against her body, presented the object at arm’s length. The Abbot gestured that she move closer. As Doric did so, the Naiad bent and took the artifact.

  Doric was surprised that the watery hands could hold anything, let alone something weighing several pounds.

  “We’d like to know what this is,” she asked.

  With blank eyes, the water nymph examined the object, running her fingers thoughtfully over the surface. Doric noticed that the artifact remained dry.

  “Yes,” the Naiad said finally. “I have found a reference to this device in my memories.”

  The tempo of Doric’s heart accelerated. She took a deep breath. “Okay...”

  “It is very old,” the Naiad went on. “Dating back to the early expansion of the Dahlvish Empire.”

  “Ah!” the Abbot said. “Just as I thought!”

  Doric, who was becoming more excited despite herself, asked, “But what is it?”

  “It was used as a communication device,” the Naiad replied, “to broadcast messages over long distances.”

  “How?” Henry asked.

  “It amplifies thoughts,” she said, “transmitting them in a manner similar to psionic projection. Those who receive the message, however, only perceive it in their minds.”

  “Well, I don’t know what psionic projection is,” Henry said, “but I know we only heard the singing from a few miles away.”

  The Naiad handed the artifact back to Doric, who took it with a newfound appreciation in her eyes. The water nymph faced Henry.

  “The range of the broadcast depends on the psionic power of the person sending it,” she replied. “A strong mind could send messages over hundreds of light years.”

  Henry opened his mouth, but closed it again, his teeth chattering.

  “Thank you,” Doric said with a slight bow.

  The Naiad nodded in return, but added, “Beware, for this is a powerful device.”

  “It’s just a super communicator, isn’t it?” Henry asked.

  “The psionic amplifier does more than just send messages,” she replied.

  Doric and Henry exchanged a glance.

  “What do you mean?” Doric asked.

  “It creates a psionic link with all those connected to it,” the Naiad replied. “Abuse of such a link could be catastrophic.”

  Proximity alarms blared on the bridge of the Baron Lancaster as the floor rattled under Lieutenant Commander Maycare’s feet. Klixian fighter craft swarmed on the main monitor like locusts. A blast flared on the screen, filling the image with orange light.

  “They’re smashing themselves into the ship!” the tactical officer shouted. “The shields are failing!”

  “Full thrust!” Captain Redgrave ordered. “Get us out of this swarm!”

  The ship lurched to one side. Maycare grabbed the arm of the captain’s chair to keep himself from sprawling across the floor.

  “They’re matching our speed,” Maycare said, regaining his footing. “We can’t outrun them...”

  “Use the point-defense lasers against the ships,” the captain replied, referring to weapons normally used against missiles.

  Across the hull of the Lancaster, small turrets popped out of their housings and began firing. Pulses of energy streaked outward, ending in fireballs of exploding kamikazes.

  Once again, the ship trembled and more alarms sounded on the bridge.

  “Shields are down,” the tactical officer said. “Breaches on several decks reported.”

  “There’s too many,” Maycare said. “We can’t kill them fast enough...”

  The captain’s face turned grim.

  “Launch a courier drone,” he said. “Alert the fleet of our situation.”

  More Klixian craft slammed into the side of the Lancaster, sending eruptions of jagged debris and the bodies of crew members, some still moving, out into space. On the bridge, the console at the tactical officer’s station exploded. He screamed in pain, his hands charred and bloody. Maycare pulled the officer from his chair.

  “Get to sick bay,” Maycare said, nearly pushing the groaning man toward the elevator doors at the back of the command deck. Returning to his own station, the lieutenant commander transferred the tactical controls to his display.

  “Report,” Redgrave said.

  “Extensive damage throughout the ship,” Maycare replied. “Sick bay is reporting fifty casualties and more on the way...”

  The captain grimaced and shook his head.

  “Is the courier drone away?” he asked.

  “Yes, Captain,” Maycare said. “It’s made the jump to hyperspace.”

  “Well, that’s something,” Redgrave sighed. Amid the rumbling of more impacts, he motioned his XO to come closer.

  “Sir?” Maycare asked, leaning forward.

  “We need to abandon ship,” the captain said, “but I need you to do something for me.”

  “Yes?”<
br />
  “Go to the brig and get that bastard Tagus.”

  “You want me to shoot him?”

  “No,” Redgrave replied. “I want you to get him into an escape pod and escort him off the ship.”

  “But why?” Maycare asked. “Let him rot in his cell until the ship explodes...”

  “Don’t argue with me!” the captain growled. “I hate him as much as anyone, but he was an officer and he’s still a Tagus, one of the goddamn Five Families. When he dies, it’ll be in front of a firing squad, not caged like an animal...”

  Maycare looked into his captain’s face, but finally agreed. “Understood.”

  “After all the pods are away,” the captain went on, “I’m going to activate the ship’s self-destruct. Maybe we can take out a few more of those bug ships in the process.”

  “What about you?” Maycare asked.

  “Don’t worry, son,” Redgrave replied. “I’ll transmat over to one of the pods after I’m done. Only a fool goes down with his ship!”

  “Yes, sir,” Maycare said.

  “Speaking of fools,” the captain said. “Go get that idiot out of the brig!”

  In keeping with the castle-like decor of the Maycare mansion, its kitchen featured stone walls and dark oak beams along the ceiling. While most of the kitchen looked as if it came from the Middle Ages of ancient Earth, the appliances were entirely modern with multiple ovens, including one especially for pizza, and a range with eight gas burners.

  From a cavernous pantry, Lord Devlin Maycare emerged, his brows creased with frustration.

  “Benson!” he shouted. “Where’s the MacGuffin Muffins?”

  The butlerbot appeared leisurely through a side door.

  “We’re all out, sir,” Benson replied.

  “Out?” Maycare replied, dumbfounded. “Why didn’t you order more?”

  “I did, sir,” the robot said, “but the braZbots are on strike at the moment. We haven’t had a delivery in weeks.”

  Maycare closed the pantry door in disgust. “This has gone too far! I love those muffins!”

  “The braZos company refused to pay their robots, so they went on strike. An understandable reaction, really...”