“Now, we all know the Imperial government — and most of its citizens for that matter — don’t agree with us,” Davidson continued. “They view robots as property, as inorganic machinery and nothing more. Well, if you can’t own a human being, how can you justify owning someone who can reason better than most humans? I say you can’t, and I say those who keep our robot brothers in bondage are no different than those that kept my ancestors in chains. Freedom is the inalienable right of everyone, and robots are no different!”
The audience stood clapping.
“Thank you,” Davidson said. “Thank you all for coming.”
As the applause subsided and the crowd began wandering toward the exit, Mel pressed past them toward the stage. Davidson jumped down when he saw her coming. They had known each other for several years now, since he started bringing robots to Eudora Prime before smuggling them across the border to the Cyber Collective.
“Mel!” he said, bending down and giving her a hug. “I’m glad you made it.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Mel replied.
“Not at all,” Davidson shook his head. “What did you think of the speech?”
“It was great, what I heard of it...”
Davidson laughed. “Well, it keeps the message alive at least.”
“Do you give these speeches on all the planets you visit?” Mel asked.
“When I can,” Davidson replied. “I’ve been pretty preoccupied lately...”
Mel noticed someone standing nearby, an android, but not one she had seen before. He was nearly as tall as Davidson, with polished white plastic covering much of his body except at the joints where colored wires were neatly bundled.
“My manners,” Davidson apologized. “Jericho, this is Miss Melina Freck. Mel, this is Jericho.”
“Please call me Jerry,” the robot said.
Mel gave a quick bow and shook Jericho’s hand. “Glad to meet you, Jerry.”
“Jericho comes all the way from the Capital,” Davidson said.
Mel’s dark eyes widened. “That must’ve been quite a trip!”
Jericho’s mechanical mouth contorted into a smile.
“Indeed,” he said without irony.
“Actually,” Davidson said, “it’s been a nightmare.”
Mel frowned. “Why?”
“We lost the pilot we hired at Far Harbor Station,” Davidson explained. “He was murdered.”
“Holy shit!”
“We managed to find another captain to fly us here,” Davidson went on. “Once we arrived, we intended to rendezvous with a Cyber Collective vessel to smuggle Jericho across the border...”
“Didn’t they show up?” Mel asked.
“No, they were punctual as usual, but when they saw Jerry, they refused to take him because of his gravitronic brain. They said they won’t accept any robots with advanced CPUs anymore.”
“They’ve been giving asylum to robots for years,” Mel said. “They’re robots too, for god’s sake!”
“For androids like me,” Jericho said, “the Collective has always stood as a kind of promised land where we could be free. Knowing that we’ve been barred from taking refuge there is very troubling.”
Mel could feel herself getting angry, but she tried focusing her emotions on something more useful. Then she had an idea.
“What if I knew someone with a ship who could help?” she said.
“The Collective doesn’t let foreign vessels into their territory,” Davidson said.
“I didn’t say it would be easy,” Mel replied.
Davidson considered for a moment.
“If we could get to their home world,” he said, “perhaps I could reason with them, or at the very least get an explanation.”
“You want to go too?” Mel said. “But they kill humans on sight!”
“It’s worth the risk,” Davidson said.
“It’s suicide!” Mel said.
“Does that mean you won’t help us?”
“Well,” she said, “the crew I know is pretty suicidal.”
“Good.”
“But there’s one condition,” Mel said, pointing a finger.
“Name it.”
“I’m going with you!”
Chapter Thirteen
Jolana Valeria, a twenty-three-year-old from Middleton, leaned against the glass railing of her balcony in the West End. Her apartment overlooked a tree-lined boulevard many stories below.
Jolana’s auburn hair draped like a curtain toward the street the farther she bent, her tight, black dress pressing against the rail. It was late and most of the people below had dined and gone home, leaving only the stragglers behind among the midnight shadows.
Not all was quiet. Jolana noticed some commotion, a group of people standing in the road. When they moved away, she saw they had written on the pavement:
ALL ENDEAVOR IS FUTILE!
WE ARE UNITED BY DOOM!
Weirdos, she thought. Probably a Null Cult or whatever the news called them.
After the cultists were out of sight, servicebots arrived and started scrubbing the street. Within minutes, the words were gone.
Jolana went back inside to the living room and made herself a drink. Her guest would be arriving soon and she wanted to be relaxed when he did.
Despite the expensive furniture and the large video screen, Jolana felt at home in the apartment, though it was a long way from where she came from. Middleton was not a slum like Ashetown, but the streets could be just as cruel.
Her parents were middle class, one a teacher and the other a stay-at-home mom. Her home life was idyllic, and Jolana hated every minute of it. She ran away as soon as she could, but ran out of money even faster. It wasn’t long before she discovered what a commodity a young girl could be when she no longer had a choice.
Nobody particularly cared whether she lived or died until she met a woman from the Red Lotus. They took her in, cleaned her up, and made her a part of something bigger than herself. She still saw men for money, but if a man hurt her, the Red Lotus made sure he paid for it with his life.
Jolana poured a glass of wine, leaving a second glass empty for now.
Hearing the chime, she went to the front door. Although she knew who it was, her eyes opened wide like she was surprised to see him. She smiled the way they taught her. She knew this would be a good night.
The sun was setting, its golden luster filling Oscar Skarlander’s office. The Warlock operative ignored the light and focused on the black gloves covering his hands. The burns he had suffered on Hekla VII, trying to retrieve the alien artifact from lava, disfigured his hands so much he couldn’t bear the sight of them. The skin grafts left scars that even Warlock doctors couldn’t erase. For Skarlander, the deeper scar was losing to a pompous ass like Devlin Maycare. The loss of the xeno tech was not nearly as humiliating as knowing Maycare had bested him.
That was unacceptable.
An execubot, carrying a box, entered Skarlander’s office. Named Dupond or Dupont—Skarlander didn’t bother to clarify which—the robot was Jericho’s replacement, but lacked a gravitronic brain.
“What is it?” Skarlander asked.
“A package, sir,” the robot replied.
“Put it on the desk and go.”
“Yes, sir.”
The execubot obeyed and left the office without another word. Skarlander examined the package. All parcels were carefully scanned prior to arriving, but at the same time, Skarlander was hesitant.
Taking a cutter from his desk, he sliced away the tape securing the seams and pulled open the top. He peered inside.
From a speaker in the ceiling, the office computer said, “Archsenator Malcolm Tarkio is on the line, wishing to speak with you.”
Pushing the box aside for the moment, Skarlander sat back in his chair.
“Go ahead.”
Tarkio’s face, sunken around the eyes, appeared on the desk monitor.
“Mister Skarlander,” he said.
“Archsena
tor,” Skarlander replied. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s about what happened two nights ago,” Tarkio said.
“Yes?”
“The detective they sent to Jolana’s apartment called me. He wants to be paid off or he’ll go to the media.”
“That would be very unfortunate,” Skarlander said.
“My DNA is all over that apartment,” Tarkio said. “I’d be ruined.”
“Oh, at the very least...”
“Are you going to help me or not?”
“Of course, Archsenator,” Skarlander said. “Warlock Industries always protects its investments.”
“What are you going to do?” Tarkio asked.
“I think something special from the Cauldron might be in order.”
Tarkio’s face turned pale. “One of your monsters?”
“We prefer the term asset,” Skarlander said, “but then I suppose we’re all assets... until we become liabilities.”
Skarlander leaned into the camera atop the computer screen.
“And as you know, liabilities must be eliminated.”
After a pause, “What do you want me to do?” Tarkio asked.
“Set up a meeting with the detective and find out what he knows.”
“Then?”
“Then,” Skarlander said, “eliminate the liability.”
The archsenator’s face winked out as the screen went blank. Skarlander stood up and pulled the box on his desk closer. He leaned over the open package and inspected the contents. Inside, charred along the edges, the head of a robot stared back at him with dim, lifeless eyes.
“Alas, poor Jericho,” Skarlander said.
Jolana looked beautiful, as always, Archsenator Tarkio thought.
She stood in the doorway of her apartment, her auburn hair shimmering in the electric light. Tarkio handed her a gift, a trinket wrapped in a box. She took it and smiled, asking him to come in.
He followed her to the kitchen where a late dinner was prepared. Nothing fancy, but Jolana lit some candles to improve the mood. In the flickering shadows, her eyes reflected the flames like fire trapped in a bottle.
Tarkio felt comfortable with her, as if he could unburden himself from the stresses of public office. She didn’t judge him or ask him to justify the darker aspects of his political life. She seemed to understand that sacrifices were required to achieve the greater good.
After the meal, they moved to the living room and sat beside each other on the leather couch. Jolana opened another bottle of wine, pouring them both a glass.
“I spoke with Prince Richard again,” Tarkio said.
Her eyes brightened. “Really?”
“But the more I hear him talk, the more I doubt he’ll support more powers for the senate,” Tarkio went on.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“People like him are born into power. They don’t understand the struggle of people born without it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Oh, keep pushing, I imagine,” Tarkio replied. “There’s a critical mass that must gather before things can change. With a little help, I think that can happen.”
“With a little help?”
“There’s always interested parties willing to donate to a worthy cause. It’s in their self-interest...”
“What kind of parties?”
“Businesses, mega-corporations,” Tarkio said, “you know, groups outside the nobility. They want access to me and the power my office provides. They help me and I help them.”
“So, they pay to see you?”
“Something like that.”
“Like you pay me?” she asked.
Tarkio choked on his wine. “Well, not exactly.”
Later, in Jolana’s bedroom, the two lay beneath the satin sheets that Tarkio had bought her. As a candle burned down to a nub on the dresser, the archsenator rolled over, facing the wall.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It happens,” she said.
“Not to me.”
She laughed. “Maybe we shouldn’t have had that second bottle.”
“I don’t find it funny.”
“Don’t be mad,” she said, snickering.
“I’m not!” he said, pulling away the sheets.
Tarkio, his naked body as white as the sheets, got out of bed and went into the bathroom. He shut the door with a slam behind him.
At night, the Grand Marching Grounds were quiet without the throngs of tourists milling across the pavement. Lonely spotlights illuminated the Victory Arch, the intricate friezes along the top contrasted in heavy shadow. The legs of the arch straddled the reflecting pool, now a black mirror of the sky. Detective Crawley leaned against one of the statues that lined the pool.
He looked at his watch. The archsenator was late, but the detective wasn’t surprised. People like that were never on time, especially if it meant keeping someone hanging. Not that Crawley had anywhere else to go. His little apartment in Ashetown was a pigsty, along with everything else in Ashetown. He didn’t mind waiting in a park.
A man approached.
Crawley stepped away from the statue and flicked away a spent cigarette.
“It’s about time,” he said.
The man, dressed in a dark coat, glared at the detective.
“You’re lucky I’m here at all,” Archsenator Tarkio growled.
“I wouldn’t call it luck,” Crawley replied. “I’d call it you didn’t have a choice.”
“Well, I’m here now, so let’s get to business.”
Crawley couldn’t help but laugh. He was expecting a big payday out of this.
“It’s not funny,” Tarkio said.
“Not from where I’m standing,” Crawley said.
“What do you think you have on me?”
The detective removed a datapad from his jacket and handed it to the archsenator. Crawley knew what Tarkio was seeing as he scrolled through the screens. There was ample evidence placing Tarkio at the scene of Jolana Valeria’s murder, including tissue and bodily fluids. Even the weird little hotel manager recognized the archsenator’s face when Crawley showed him a picture.
Watching Tarkio’s hand shake holding the datapad, Crawley noticed tears welling up around the man’s eyes. Must’ve been a crime of passion, Crawley thought. He knew all about those. Love and crazy were usually the same thing.
“It’s an open and shut case,” the detective said. “You can either pay me or I go to the press and see that you get what you deserve.”
“You think that’s what I deserve?” Tarkio said, his voice nearly cracking.
“You know what? I’ve seen worse, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get thrown out an airlock.”
Tarkio cleared his throat and stood straighter as he handed the tablet back to Crawley.
“We don’t always get what we deserve,” Tarkio said, “but I’m going to make sure you do.”
“Before you get any ideas,” Crawley said, “I’ve got that info backed up in case anything happens to me.”
“Password protected, I suppose?”
“Goddamn right.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Crawley asked, growing irritated.
“Warlock Industries has a special research division,” Tarkio explained. “They’ve perfected ways to enhance psionic abilities, even when you’re not a Dahl.”
“Huh?”
“Mind reading, for example.”
Crawley became aware of someone else nearby. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t noticed him before. The man wore a gray bodysuit, common among Warlock employees. His skin was exceptionally pale, almost translucent, except for black circles under his eyes. What really stuck out, Crawley dimly began to realize, was the stranger’s bulbous head including several enlarged lobes protruding from his skull. The detective wasn’t even sure if he was human.
Crawley dropped the datapad and started reaching for the pistol in his jacket, b
ut felt the muscles in his arm seize up as if an electrical current was surging through it. His whole body stiffened.
The stranger moved closer until he was just a few inches away from the detective. Crawley could see the veins in the man’s head throbbing.
“It didn’t have to be like this,” Tarkio said. “If you had just done your job, none of this would’ve happened.”
A low gurgle came from Crawley’s throat.
“I’m sorry,” Tarkio went on. “You’ve become a loose end...”
The stranger looked at the archsenator and nodded. Crawley knew this meant they had the password, and whatever other information they were looking for. He wanted to cry out, but the muscles of his tongue were frozen.
Tarkio looked at the stranger. “Finish this.”
A jolt went through Crawley’s body like a lightning bolt. His back arched and his arms swung outward, his fingers curling into claws. Within Crawley’s brain, blood vessels swelled and burst, hemorrhaging throughout his skull. Like a wet rag doll, the detective went limp and fell to the pavement in a heap.
The body lay there undisturbed for several hours until a servicebot arrived in the morning and tried, unsuccessfully, to vacuum it into a bin.
Archsenator Tarkio returned late to his mansion in the West End. His butlerbot, who never needed rest, greeted him in the entrance hall and asked if he needed anything. Tarkio wearily waved the robot away, saying he would see it in the morning. The butlerbot bowed and went off toward the servants’ wing while Tarkio himself trudged into the living room where a cart held a collection of liquors. He could have asked the robot to bring up a fresh bottle of wine from the cellar, but that would have only reminded Tarkio of his last night with Jolana. Instead, he poured a snifter of brandy and hoped it would let him sleep a little easier.
Tarkio swished around the nightcap in this glass. Lost in thought, he didn’t see the woman standing by the window in the poorly lit room. When he did, he nearly dropped his drink.
“Who are you?” he said. “How’d you get in here?”
The woman came away from the window, stopping beside an armchair where she rested her hand on the back. She had wrinkles around her eyes and strands of gray in her otherwise brown hair. She wore a dark suit with red lace around the neck and cuffs.
Imperium Chronicles Box Set Page 13