The Empire of Ruin

by Robert I. Katz

  Devlin gave Curly a thoughtful look. “A rather large young man.”

  Michael grinned. “Larger than most.”

  “Tell me, does he fight?”

  Michael was confused. “If he has to, I suppose.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” Devlin gave him a wolfish grin. “Some few members of the club occasionally enjoy more active forms of entertainment. Servants after all, are paid to represent the interests—and the honor—of their houses. Such interests may be expressed in many ways.”

  Michael stared at him.

  “Parties may have more than one theme, and more than one form of entertainment may be offered. Sometimes we gamble on the outcome.”

  “I see,” Michael said. He looked at Curly, his brow wrinkling.

  “Think about it,” Lord Devlin said. “If you’re interested, give me a call.”

  Michael nodded. “I shall.”

  Devlin looked again at Curly, deftly handling a tray of canapes. “A very large young man, indeed.”

  They soon sat down to dinner. The food was excellent, the conversation a little less so, mostly centered around parties, the latest gossip and prospects for various teams in various sports, none of which held the slightest interest for Michael. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the rest of the evening. Finally, after the last dessert had been served, the last wine poured, the guests rose to their feet one by one, thanked him for a marvelous time and took their leave. Devlin was the last. “You will think about my proposal?” he said.

  “Of course,” Michael replied.

  “Excellent,” Devlin said, and then he too, was gone.

  Michael breathed a sigh of relief. He picked up his wine glass and drained the last few drops. Curly, Rosanna, Frankie and Richard Norlin began to clear the used dishes, assisted by Anson’s marines. Anson sat down next to Michael. “Interesting proposals,” he said.

  “Very.”

  “Will you accept?”

  “Perhaps. I’m not certain what there is to be gained. Sex with one’s servants seems a bit tawdry but is not illegal, if that is indeed what Lydia was suggesting, so long as it’s not coerced.” He gave a small grimace. “Sometimes it’s part of their contract. Neither is fighting, so long as the participants are willing.”

  “Good, clean fun,” Anson observed.

  “I’ll think about it,” Michael said. He sighed. “Let’s review the tapes.”

  “Fascinating series of implants,” Anson said.

  A three-dimensional cutout of Jeremy Baylor’s skull floated in the holotank. The young man had accessory neurons in several key centers of his brain, including the thalamus, prefrontal cortex and somatosensory cortex in the parietal lobe. These connected to small, semi-organic filaments that formed a web around the entire brain.

  “What do you think that’s for?”

  “Pain modulation,” Michael said. “It’s a control drode.” Two thousand years ago, back in the fading days of the First Empire, such neural webs had routinely been used to control criminal behavior. Try to commit a crime, even think about committing a crime, and the subject would suffer pain. The implants were programmed to inflict a graded response, from mild discomfort up to all-encompassing agony, depending upon the nature of the contemplated action. Grown from the victim’s own stem cells, they took root in their intended target and established themselves within days. Once in place, they could be inactivated with the proper codes but could not be removed without killing the victim.

  “Pain…I’ve never seen one like that.” Anson wrinkled his brow. The Second Empire had a similar technology used for a similar purpose, but did not use it to inflict pain. The Second Empire preferred simple incapacitation from drodes confined to the frontal cortex, the motor center of the brain.

  Lynette Chapman had the same neural network in place as Jeremy Baylor.

  There were other modifications among their guests tonight. Lydia Prescott Jones and Solomon Towne possessed booster glands, common organic implants providing mood altering substances suitable for any occasion. Gregory James, Lydia Prescott Jones’ bodyguard, and Lydia herself, had enhanced musculature, though not beyond the degree that could have been achieved by intensive exercise. Such implants were the easy way to get strong. Lydia and Lord Devlin had miniature lasers in their fingertips. None of these were particularly unusual.

  “Pain,” Anson said again. He frowned.

  “They can’t even think of disobeying,” Michael said. “They have to do what she says, anything she says, or they’ll suffer for it.”

  Anson grinned without humor. “I would watch myself around Lydia Prescott Jones. She’s a formidable woman, more dangerous than she seems.”

  “And she seems pretty dangerous.” Michael shrugged. “I’ll try to stay out of her clutches.”

  Anson stared moodily at the three-dimensional copies of Jeremy Baylor and Lynette Chapman’s skulls. “We would need the codes to turn those off. Otherwise, there’s nothing we can do for them.”

  “We’ll see,” Michael said.

  Chapter 14

  “A very large young man, indeed,” Lord Devlin said.

  Curly, though by nature far better equipped for combat than most, was at heart a peaceful sort of fellow. He enjoyed a good book and lazing on the beach. Still, he had agreed to Michael’s proposal with a smile and no reluctance whatsoever, and now here they were. The Adventurers’ Club possessed an estate high on a bluff overlooking the ocean, several kilometers from the center of Terra Nova. The estate was ringed by a high stone wall and patrolled when not in use by giant attack dogs.

  The room was crowded. An elevated circular cage, ten meters in diameter, stood in the center. The cage was surrounded by small tables, which were surrounded in turn by rows of soft, comfortable seats, rising upward toward the ceiling. The room could hold perhaps two hundred spectators. Servants circulated through the room, offering drinks and small plates of food. A popular entertainment, Michael thought. The room was crowded. He was sitting with Devlin at one of the tables closest to the circle.

  “It seemed only fair to match him with another beginner,” Devlin said. He gave Michael a sly smile. “It is customary to place wagers on the outcome.”

  “Of course,” Michael said.

  “Shall we say ten credits? Just to make it interesting.”

  “Ten credits.” Michael puffed up his cheeks and seemed to think about it. “Ten credits would be fine.”

  Devlin rubbed his hands together. “Excellent.”

  Curly stood in the center of the circle, looking like a medium sized bear. His opponent was smaller but obviously in shape, his musculature clearly defined and probably enhanced. He bounced a little on the balls of his feet and gave Curly a crooked grin. Curly stared back impassively. Both of them were naked to the waist. Curly’s torso was massive, his opponent’s sculpted.

  “Go,” the referee said, and dropped his arm.

  The smaller man exploded into action. Gyrating across the ring, arms and legs flailing in a complex pattern designed to both distract his opponent and create an impenetrable barrier to attack, he leapt, one leg extended in a perfect kick aimed at Curly’s face. For a moment, Curly looked surprised, then he shifted to the side by less than a centimeter. His opponent’s kick passed by his face. Curly’s arm came up as he stepped in and he punched the other man in the groin. His left arm wrapped around his opponent’s torso, his right arm pushing up on his opponent’s leg and suddenly the smaller man was crashing into the ground, head first, where he lay still. Curly nudged the smaller man with a toe. He didn’t respond. Curly shrugged.

  “Bout,” the referee said.

  Curly was good. More than good, actually. His natural aptitude had by now been augmented by the very best of training. At this point, he could hold his own with Richard Norlin or Matthew Oliver and it took some real effort for Michael or Dustin Nye to beat him. Michael held out his hand to Devlin and gave him a satisfied smile.

  Devlin responded with a tiny frown, then reluc
tantly grinned and handed Michael his winnings. “A shorter match than expected.”

  Four more bouts followed, all of them entertaining. The fighters were skilled and generally evenly matched. One of them, he was surprised to see, was Gregory James, Lydia Prescott Jones’ bodyguard, who won by decision after a tough three rounds. James moved with economy. He conserved his energy, concentrated on his job and didn’t showboat. He was better than Michael had expected.

  Lydia, he noted, watched with avid intensity while Gregory James fought. Jeremy Baylor, who was standing behind her, reached out and began to gently massage her shoulders. Lynette Chapman, sitting next to her, leaned over and placed a soft kiss on her cheek, then held her hand. Lydia’s breath came faster, her lips parted and she almost groaned. Devlin, noticing the direction of Michael’s gaze, looked over at Lydia and frowned.

  Despite his protestations about knowing his place, it seemed possible that Gregory James may have managed to worm his way into his employer’s bed. Or maybe Lydia just got turned on by violence. Some did.

  “Tell me,” Michael asked, “do club members ever fight?”

  Devlin, who by now was somewhat drunk, peered at him suspiciously. “Rarely. One could be injured. That’s what we have retainers for.”

  “Hmm…”

  “Surely, you’re not thinking of entering the ring yourself?”

  Michael grinned. “No,” he said, “No, of course not.”

  Chapter 15

  “I have an idea,” Romulus said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “As you know, a neural network cannot be removed without killing the subject and it cannot be inactivated without the proper codes. It may be possible, however, to render it functionally inert in situ.”

  Michael was sitting in the lounge, brooding over the situation with Jeremy Baylor and Lynette Chapman. Rosanna puttered about the kitchen. Curly, in the guise of ‘helping’ her, was content to simply be nearby. Frankie was lying on a nearby sofa, a blanket spread across her knees while reading a novel on her interface. Richard Norlin was playing something on the keyboard; headphones covered both of his ears and the sound was turned so low that only he could hear. Andrew Sloane and Gloriosa were in their rooms and Henrik Anson, Matthew and Marissa were below decks, training with the Illyrians and marines.

  “How would that be done?” Michael asked.

  “Theoretically, the same way that the network was originally established: tailored stem cells, in this case designed to disrupt the network’s function and ultimately, to replace it with something harmless and benign.”

  Michael frowned. “And where would we find such tailored stem cells?”

  “I have been investigating,” Romulus said. “As you know, the Second Empire uses neural networks for behavioral control. The basic technology is well known to them. There is an Imperial Research Facility on Dancy, embedded in the University system, that may be able to assist us.”

  Michael thought about it for less than a second. “Very well. Ask Colonel Anson to come to the lounge.”

  Romulus’ existence was still being kept secret and so the message sent to Anson’s interface ostensibly came from Michael. Anson listened without comment then shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “Let me make a few calls.”

  An hour later, the two men arrived at a non-descript brick building near the port of Terra Nova. The place looked rundown, perhaps an insurance brokerage that wasn’t doing well or the office of a less than successful attorney. They were greeted by a bored, not too bright looking young woman seated at a chipped, wooden desk with a battered console sitting on top of it. She was buffing her nails as they walked in. “Yeah?” she said.

  “Anson and Glover to see the boss.”

  “You got any ID?”

  “Code fifty six dash eight,” Anson said. He tossed a chip on the desk, which she picked up and inserted into a slot on her console. She glanced at the screen, then gave a thin smile and suddenly looked neither stupid nor bored. She pushed a button and a metal panel set into the wall slid aside. “Go on in,” she said. “He’s waiting for you.”

  A short, slight man with pale blue eyes and blond hair cut close to his scalp gave them a quizzical look as they walked in. He sat behind an old desk covered with a veneer of fake wood. The room was filled with cheap, rickety furniture. There were no windows. “Sit down,” he said. Michael glanced at Anson. They both sat on a stained cloth couch. “Anson and Glover…I’ve seen your reports.” He nodded at Anson, then gave Michael a quick grin. “You can call me Arcturus. It’s not my real name, of course. I head Naval Intelligence in this sector.”

  “I can’t say much for the décor,” Michael said.

  “A front. This is where we meet the locals.”

  “And we count as locals?”

  Arcturus gave them both a thin smile. “I don’t know you. There have been some incidents.”

  Michael shrugged.

  “So, “Arcturus said, “what can I do for you?”

  Anson explained. Arcturus listened impassively then sat back with a sigh. “Lydia Prescott Jones is rich,” he said.

  Neither Anson nor Michael said anything. After a moment, Arcturus grinned. “Don’t care, do you? I, unfortunately, am paid to care. We have to tread very carefully around the rich. They know too many secrets and too many politicians owe them favors.

  “You’re sure of this?” It wasn’t really a question.

  “Yes,” Michael said.

  Arcturus frowned, and stared at Michael. “You’re a mysterious fellow in a mysterious ship, from nowhere that we can determine. You’ve helped us out in the past but we don’t necessarily trust you.”

  Michael shrugged again. “Not my problem. I don’t trust you, either.”

  Arcturus gave him a brooding look. “Go to Octavion College of Medicine. Talk to Horst Michelson. He’s an expert on these things. He’s done work for us in the past. We’ll let him know you’re coming.”

  “Thanks,” Michael said.

  Arcturus sighed. “Most of this job is paperwork,” he said. “I hate paperwork.”

  “Maybe you’ve got the wrong job.”

  Arcturus gave him a wan grin. “Maybe I do.”

  Octavion College of Medicine was a division of Octavion University, an elite school for over five thousand years. Founded originally as a consortium between the old Earth colleges of Oxford, Princeton and Heidelberg, it had long since passed its progenitors in both longevity and prestige, since most of Earth was now a radioactive wasteland and Great Britain, the original home to Oxford, now existed only as a series of small islands rising from a polluted sea.

  They found Horst Michelson in the anteroom of the Faculty Lounge, drinking a cup of spiced chocolat. He peered up at them as they approached. “Anson and Glover?”

  “That’s us,” Michael said.

  He rose to his feet. “Come with me.”

  He led them to an elevator, which descended to a tunnel, and then down a series of corridors to a steel plated door. Michelson punched the code into his interface, the door opened and they trooped inside. They found themselves in a laboratory; sensors, burners, monitor screens, rotating holographs and blinking lights covered almost the entire surface of the black stone countertops. Michelson leaned against one of the counters and said, “We can talk here. It’s private. From what I understand, you want a means to eliminate a neural network?”

  Michael glanced at Anson. “We don’t care if it’s eliminated so long as it’s rendered inert,” he said.

  Michelson grunted. “Tell me more.”

  He sipped his chocolat as Michael did so, asking an occasional question, then frowned when Michael had finished. “I get it,” he said. “What makes you think this is even possible?”

  Michael shrugged. “It was an idea.”

  Michelson peered down into his cup as if looking for enlightenment. “Neural networks are a relatively humane way of controlling violent felons and of preventing criminal impulses from being acted upon. The
y serve a useful purpose.”

  “Not in this case,” Anson said.

  “No?” Mickelson shook his head. “There’s always a reason for doing something that would otherwise be stupid. Always an excuse for opening Pandora’s box.”

  “If you need a reason or an excuse, this is a good one,” Michael said.

  “Alright,” Mickelson said. “Naval intelligence has asked me to do this but you have to understand a few things. First of all, neural networks are derived from the subject’s own stem cells. They all have the same viral markers, which enable them to do what they do, but each one is subtly different. There is a lot of individual variation in the genetics. What this means is that any biologically derived agent that I can come up with may work on one patient but may not work on another, or it may work too well; it may cause damage to the brain beyond the network or even kill the patient.”

  “That would be bad,” Michael said.

  Mickelson raised an eyebrow. “Still want to proceed?” he asked.

  Michael thought about it for only a second. “I don’t think we have any choice.”

  “On your own head, be it.” Mickelson shrugged. “Give me a couple of days. I’ll let you know when it’s done.”

  Chapter 16

  “It’s a virus,” Anson said. “It multiplies within the body, so the dosage is almost irrelevant but it will have to be brought into contact with the subject’s mucous membranes or directly injected. How are we going to do that?”

  “Gloriosa and I have been invited more than once to visit,” Michael said. “It was strongly implied that the purpose of the visit would be sex. That should do it.”

  Frankie frowned. “I would prefer a different plan.”

  Michael grinned at her. “Don’t we all serve the Empire? Sometimes we have to put our petty individual preferences aside and do what’s right for the greater good.”

  Frankie glared at him as Gloriosa gave an emphatic nod. “I am in agreement with this proposal,” she said. “I can do sex. I am good at sex.”