The Imperium Chronicles Collection, 2nd Edition - Stories

by W. H. Mitchell

  With bright red hair and silver rings piercing his ears, Ramus bore little resemblance to his brethren. He wore a pair of black pants with a red pinstripe down the leg, and a sleeveless shirt exposing archaic lettering tattooed down his arms. If his parents, whom he hadn’t seen in many years, could see him now, Ramus doubted they would have approved. On the other hand, they would no longer remember him anyway...

  A few steps behind the captain, a silver and blue robot followed her master. A general purpose android, she went by Gen for short. About the same height as the Dahl, Gen had the curves typical of a petite woman and large, expressive eyes.

  “You still back there?” Ramus asked without turning.

  “Yes, sir!” Gen replied enthusiastically.

  Ramus knew his ship’s engineer would have preferred a more rugged robot for the Wanderer, but the captain was unsympathetic. If Orkney Fugg had his way, the engine room would be filled with sexbots and fungus beer.

  Gen carried a bag, stuffed with supplies, slung over her shoulder. Even if she wasn’t a heavy-duty workbot, she could still manage pretty well on her own, Ramus thought.

  “Are we headed back to the ship?” she asked.

  “No,” Ramus replied. “We’re seeing a client somewhere in town. Fugg’s supposed to meet us there.”

  “Oh, that’ll be nice,” Gen said.

  “Well, Fugg’s picking the place, so I’m sure it’ll be a dump...”

  “As in garbage?”

  “No,” Ramus said, “As in strippers...”

  Life on the streets of Fortunas IV was neither glamorous nor long for many of the children who grew up there. For Storma Bane, nothing was easy since as far back as he could remember. Like all other humans, he could trace his ancestry to the first colonists who arrived in Andromeda seven centuries earlier. Since his forefathers weren’t part of the crew, they didn’t become part of the aristocratic class that developed over the years. Storma’s family tree started with low-level technicians and mechanics that might have made something of themselves but, for whatever reason, never did. His parents ended up on the far side of the Imperium with no money and no prospects. Stormas was born, discarded, and grew up in the alleys and slum housing of this arid world on his own.

  Even without a leg up, Storma achieved more than most of the other kids. By age fourteen, he joined a gang and was running errands for the local mob. By eighteen, he had a gang of his own, although it numbered only three, mugging drunk tourists who took a wrong turn between the hotel and the bazaar or one of the seedy bars that made up the middle of town.

  Tonight, Storma and his crew waited in a darkened alley for someone to wander by. Like coyotes in the desert, their keen eyes were always on the watch for an easy mark. Now in his early twenties, he crouched beside a garbage bin, smoking a cigarette. He wore a headscarf pulled down around his neck while his two friends had their faces covered to hide their identities. Storma didn’t care if people saw what he looked like. You couldn’t get a reputation if nobody knew who you were, he thought. Street cred had to be earned the hard way.

  The sound of footsteps approached on the sidewalk outside the alley. From the metallic cadence along the cement, Storma knew one of them was a robot. This was a good score, he thought. Robots were expensive.

  A man and a general purpose android passed by the alley entrance. Storma recognized the man as Dahl by his short stature and pointed ears. He had some strange tattoos, but that detail faded as Storma grabbed his men, stepping out into the lamplight.

  “Nice robot,” Storma said, pulling a knife from his belt.

  The android, blue and silver, stopped and turned.

  “Why thank you,” she said, “I was recently refurbished!”

  Storma glared at the Dahl.

  “Hand over the bot or I’ll slit your throat,” Storma said.

  Half expecting the Dahl to run away, Storma was surprised when he stood his ground, even taking a step closer. The tattoos on his arms were glowing, turning a little brighter each second, with an odd, radiant blue. Also, his eyes were blazing like fire.

  “What the hell is this?” Storma muttered.

  The Dahl was transforming, his hands and fingers growing longer. His fingernails curled into claws like a wolf and his mouth transformed into jaws full of fangs. Storma couldn’t look away.

  “You should be running too!” the creature growled.

  Storma peered over his shoulder just in time to see the other two gang members disappearing down the alley.

  “You want to fight?” Storma shouted, trying to sound fierce.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” the creature said, leaping at him.

  Storma swung his knife, but missed badly, his arm going wide. With its claws, the creature slashed through Storma’s forearm. Both the knife and the hand holding it landed with a fleshy thud on the ground. Storma looked at the stump, spewing blood, like it was someone else’s.

  The nightmarish monster prepared for another attack.

  “No!” Storma screamed, but the paw swung around, slicing through his neck. His head rolled away into the gutter as Storma’s body fell headless to the pavement.

  The Pink Persian was a gentleman’s club in only the loosest terms. Located near the Fortunas starport, the interior was almost universally pink except in places were purple seemed more tasteful. Upon entering, patrons found the bar on their left and booths on the right, with regular tables cluttering the middle. At the end of the bar, a stage was set up along with a metal pole. A female Tikarin, a cat-like humanoid, danced on stage, wrapping her body around the post to the beat of the music blasting from speakers in the ceiling. While technically naked, the dancer was still covered in tan fur like a lioness.

  In an adjacent booth, with a good view of the show, Orkney Fugg watched disapprovingly.

  “You call that dancing?” he shouted. “My dear ol’ nana could work the brass better than you!”

  The Tikarin paused momentarily to show Fugg her middle finger before going back to her act.

  “Rude!” Fugg replied.

  The chief engineer for the Wanderer, Fugg was Gordian, a species of stocky, ill-tempered people with the face of a boar, including a pig nose and tusks. On his home planet, he would be drinking fungus beer brewed lovingly in the belly of the mountains. On Fortunas IV, he had to settle for the swill wine they sold domestically. Empty bottles of it littered Fugg’s table.

  Through the gauzy haze of his stupor and a generally bad mood, Fugg recognized a familiar face. His captain, Rowan Ramus, and their robot were wading through the tables and chairs in his direction.

  “You were supposed to be waiting for the client,” Ramus said, sliding into the booth.

  “You didn’t say I couldn’t drink while I waited,” Fugg replied.

  Gen the robot remained standing beside the table. Her eyes were fearful, as if she had seen a ghost.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Fugg asked.

  Her eyes brightened and her lips contorted into a pained smile.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing horrible just happened.”

  She laughed, but Fugg thought it sounded artificial, even for a robot.

  “Never mind that,” Ramus said. “Our client just got here...”

  A robot waited just inside the entrance, its casing painted in a dull orange color with areas worn down so the aluminum underneath showed through. Seeing the others in the booth, he walked toward them with a mechanical gait.

  For Fugg, this was too much.

  “We’re taking jobs from robots now?” he protested.

  “Ignore him,” Ramus said, addressing the machine. “I’m Captain Ramus of the Wanderer.”

  “I’m Bos Kacil,” the client said. “We spoke on the comm earlier.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” the captain replied. “This is my engineer, Orkey Fugg.”

  “Actually, Mister Fugg,” Kacil said, “I’m Parvulian, not a robot. We merely use these mechanized walkers as locomotion.�
��

  With a hiss, the chest of the machine cracked and swung open, revealing a cockpit inside. A man, only twenty inches tall with pink skin and large, bulbous eyes, stared out at them.

  “What the piss porridge...?” Fugg said.

  “As you can see,” Kacil continued, his voice higher in pitch than the lower, synthesized speech of the robot, “I ride inside this machine, called a mech.”

  “Good lord,” Fugg replied. “I’ve had turds bigger than you!”

  The chest door slammed shut abruptly.

  “Let’s get to business if you don’t mind,” Kacil said.

  “Right,” Ramus agreed.

  “I represent the Parvulian Trade Consortium. Several of our freighters have come under attack recently and our crews have been either killed or captured.”

  Fugg shrugged.

  “Sounds like Pirate Clans to me,” he said dismissively.

  “Indeed, Mister Fugg,” Kacil replied, “but none of our cargoes were stolen.”

  “Are these strictly Parvulian crews?” Ramus asked.

  “Only the captains. The rest are humans, Tikarin, and even a few Gordians like your friend here.”

  Ramus gave his engineer a sideways glance.

  “Oh, we’re not exactly friends,” he remarked.

  “At any rate,” Kacil went on, “another of our ships, the Konpira Maru, has failed to check in. We want you to investigate what happened to it.”

  “My rate’s ten thousand per day,” Ramus said, “plus another five if we get shot at, not including the robot.”

  “That’s acceptable,” Kacil replied. “I’ll transmit the last known coordinates of the freighter.”

  Gen, who had remained silent the whole time, perked up.

  “Wait, what about the robot?” she asked.

  The next morning, the Wanderer left Fortunas IV and jumped to hyperspace en route to the coordinates Bos Kacil had given. On the second day of the journey, Fugg was doing routine maintenance in the engine room with Gen assisting. For the engineer, routine meant swearing at a power coupling. After Fugg kicked the device and started hopping around on one foot, Gen decided to ask a question that had been bothering her.

  “Master Fugg,” she said, “What kind of Dahl is Captain Ramus?”

  What?” the engineer scowled, holding his ankle while balancing precariously on his other foot.

  “I’ve met several Dahl, but he’s not like the rest of his people, is he?”

  Fugg snorted loudly, falling over.

  “People?” he said, now sitting. “Ramus ain’t got people any more. He’s one of the Forgotten!”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The Dahl have long memories, but when Ramus turned his back on them, they turned their back on him. They literally deleted him from their memories. He’s not just an exile, Gen, he’s been erased!”

  Gen stared at Fugg as if she had more to say.

  “What?” Fugg shouted.

  “It’s just...” she sputtered, “We were walking in town the other night and some gentlemen wanted a word with us. The one man was very complimentary, but then there seemed to be a misunderstanding and Master Ramus changed. He grew claws like an animal and killed the man right in front me! It was terrifying!”

  “Oh, that’s just dark psi,” Fugg said.

  “Dahlvish psionics?”

  “Well, not the kind regular Dahl learn. Dark psi is strictly forbidden.”

  “Is that why they exiled Master Ramus?”

  “Naw,” Fugg waved his hands. “He learned it after. He fell in with a group called the Psi Lords. They taught him all kinds of crazy shit. Anyway, he doesn’t use it much. He’s kind of weird about the whole thing.”

  Gen was silent again. Fugg sighed.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Is Master Ramus a bad person?”

  Fugg snorted. “We’re all bad people, Gen. Pay attention, dumbass!”

  “I always thought I was good.”

  “That’s because you’re a stupid robot! Deep down we’re all terrible in our own special way. It’s part of nature. We act good most of the time, but when push comes to shove, we’ll do whatever terrible thing needs doin’.”

  “Oh...”

  “Listen, don’t worry about it. It’s all good.”

  “But you just said...”

  “Good. Bad. They’re just words, see? They can mean whatever you want.”

  “I think I have a lot to learn,” Gen said.

  “Just stick with me, kid,” Fugg thumbed his chest. “I’ll teach you all the ins and outs.”

  Gen smiled. “Thank you!”

  Part 2

  Along the border of the Imperium, His Imperial Majesty’s Ship, the Baron Lancaster, patrolled against the Pirate Clans and other marauders. At nearly 900 yards long, its long, spike-like hull flared near the stern where a tall superstructure, like an armored citadel, projected from the deck. Within the tower, the bridge was basked in red lights, casting crimson shadows on the faces of those manning them. Adjacent to the bridge, on the starboard side, a sliding door led to the captain’s office and, beyond that, his stateroom.

  Lord Captain Redgrave and Lord Commander Maycare drank coffee in the captain’s office. The captain was in his late forties, with graying hair. His XO was over a decade younger, with dark hair cut short along the sides and slightly longer on top. Both officers, and nearly all members of the naval officer corps, were of noble blood. While neither belonged to one of the major families of the Imperial aristocracy, the captain and XO were entitled to preferential treatment in all things, including their assignments in the Navy. While many nobles took full advantage of the opportunities presented to them, Redgrave rose through the ranks more on merit than luck of birth, from a lowly ensign during the Third Imperium-Magna War to commanding officer of his own warship.

  “What will they do with the privateer?” Commander Maycare asked, referring to a ship they had captured recently.

  “Tow it somewhere and give it a good looking over, I’d imagine,” the captain replied.

  “It won’t matter if you ask me,” Maycare said. “The Magna are going to keep sending marauders across the border, harassing our shipping, until we send a fleet to stop them.”

  “I was there for the last war. I’m not eager to see another one.”

  Maycare grinned wryly as he brought the mug to his lips.

  The young voice of the chief communications officer crackled over the intercom on the captain’s desk. “Lord Captain, a courier ship has transmitted an encrypted message for you. It’s from Lord Admiral Hightower.”

  The captain pressed a button on the comm. “Patch it through to my office, Ensign.”

  “Aye, Lord Captain.”

  A monitor recessed into the surface of his desk sprang to life and the face of a man, his face creased with age, appeared.

  “Should I leave?” the XO asked.

  “No, stay,” the captain said. “Computer, decrypt and play message.”

  “Captain Redgrave,” Hightower began, “On behalf of the Fleet, let me congratulate you on your recent success against the privateers. Nevertheless, we must remain ever vigilant against the Green Devils and the steady diet of attacks they keep feeding us. Perhaps someday the Magna will learn we can’t be swayed by such nonsense.”

  “Not likely,” Maycare said under his breath.

  “In a related matter,” the admiral continued, “Intelligence has informed us that another Parvulian freighter has been attacked. As before, the crew was kidnapped, but the cargo was left undisturbed. Obviously, this is a serious matter, but the Parvulians have seen fit to hire an independent party to investigate. Confidentially, we can’t have these xenos acting on their own without the Imperial Navy’s involvement. Pretty soon they’ll start asking why they need us at all. At any rate, I’m ordering the Baron Lancaster to the enclosed coordinates. It’s imperative that you find out what’s going on, and if you can dissuade this independent party, all the b
etter! Lord Admiral Hightower out!”

  The image blinked off.

  Commander Maycare got up and headed toward the door to the bridge. “I’ll have Ensign Clark plot a course, sir.”

  “Hmm,” Redgrave murmured as the door slid open and the XO made his exit.

  Like a ripple in a pond of stars, the Wanderer emerged from hyperspace above a turquoise planet. A gray freighter with long, twin engines at the back floated in high orbit above the world. Except for running lights, the ship was dark.

  In the cockpit of the Wanderer, Captain Ramus flipped on the intercom.

  “I see the Konpira Maru,” he said.

  Fugg’s voice came from the speaker.

  “How’s she look?”

  “Not great,” Ramus replied. “She’s probably on auxiliary power.”

  “Are we boarding her or what?”

  “Meet me by the airlock.”

  Ramus brought his ship alongside the freighter, extending a gangway tunnel between the airlocks. At 75 yards long, the Wanderer was only half the size of the Maru.

  By the time Ramus reached the airlock, Fugg and Gen were already there. The engineer held a blaster in one hand and Ramus’ holster in the other. Ramus took the belt and strapped it around his waist, double checking his weapon was fully charged.

  “Gen,” he said, “go to the cockpit and keep an eye on the sensors. Let us know over the comm if anything shows up.”

  “Neat!” the robot replied.

  Ramus took a tiny plug-like comm and placed it into his ear while Fugg did the same. Concealed from the casual observer, the comm would allow them to talk to each other or the ship.

  Ramus and Fugg crossed to the other ship. Once they were safely in the airlock, Ramus checked for a breathable atmosphere.

  “It’s got oxygen,” he said.

  “Good,” Fugg replied. “We can’t burn things without that!”

  “We’re not burning things.”

  “Sure, you say that now...”

  The airlock opened into a dimly lit hallway of smooth aluminum walls and steel grates along the floors giving access to the pipes and electronics running beneath. The air smelled heavy and stale.

  “Could use a spot of paint,” Fugg remarked. “Their decorating is bullshit.”