Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

Mel remained transfixed, frozen, until an energy bolt blasted the computer beside her. Fugg’s voice pierced the deafening noise.

  “We gotta get out of here!” he shouted.

  Knowing Davidson was still sitting in a chair, his mind connected by wires to the node sphere, Mel knew she couldn’t leave him.

  “We can’t!” Mel screamed. “Randall’s still jacked in!”

  “I’ll disconnect him,” Jericho said, but shrank back as the panel next to him melted into slag.

  “I’ve got an idea!” Mel said, motioning toward the data banks. “Lure them through there!”

  Jericho ran between the racks, followed by several androids close behind. Caught in the narrow space, the robots turned sideways, shoulder to shoulder with each other.

  Mel frantically uncoupled a power conduit from the wall, waiting for Jericho to re-emerge from the towers of data banks. As soon as she saw his silver frame clear the last computer, Mel touched the end of the conduit to one of the towers. Arcs of electricity laced between the data banks, piercing the avatars like lightning. As they exploded, each robot blossomed into flame.

  Knocked off her feet by the blast, Mel struggled to get back up. She wiped soot from her eyes and made her way through the clouds of thick, acrid smoke. Stepping over shattered avatars, Mel reached the computer where Davidson was plugged in.

  “Is he okay?” Mel asked hopefully.

  She pushed past Ramus, who had returned to his normal form, and Fugg’s own portly shape. Her eyes first fell on Jericho standing silently beside Davidson’s chair, and then on Davidson himself, his chin resting on his chest where a charred hole smoked from a blaster bolt.

  Mel felt the overwhelming desire to scream, or at least cry, but nothing came from her. She simply stared at the inanimate corpse, as if it were nothing but a mannequin.

  “We can’t stay here,” Simon said. “The OI will send others.”

  “How did they find us?” Ramus wanted to know.

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Simon said. “We must leave.”

  “You said we were safe here...” Ramus said.

  Jericho turned to his brother. “You did this!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Simon replied. “Either we go now or we die.”

  “They couldn’t have tracked Randall back through the terminal — I made sure of that,” Jericho continued. “You’re the only one who could’ve told them where he was.”

  “Is this true?” Mel asked.

  “The life of a fleshling is irrelevant,” Simon told them. “He shouldn’t have come here and now he’s dead because of it.”

  “He’s dead because of you!” Mel shouted.

  Simon faced her proudly. “He was flesh — a human no less — the enslavers of my people. He deserved to die!”

  A flash of orange lit their faces. Mel, holding Fugg’s blaster that she had lifted from his holster, stood with the barrel smoldering hot.

  “Simon!” Jericho said, reaching for the other robot, but the android was already falling backwards with smoke trailing from his head. He landed with a thud, smoldering wires protruding from the blackened crater where his face used to be.

  In silence, Jericho stared blankly until, as if his mind switched back on, he said, “I can save Randall.”

  “Malarkey!” Fugg snorted.

  “I can bring him back,” Jericho said, “just not here...”

  Back on the Wanderer, they gathered in the galley around the dining table. Mel, her eyes focused on the empty chair beside her, was darkly quiet.

  “Is it safe here?” Ramus asked.

  “Long enough for what I have in mind,” the robot told him.

  Fugg folded his burly arms together and snorted. “It can’t be done.”

  “As I said before,” Jericho explained, “the avatars can download an imprint of the OI’s consciousness. I can do the same with Randall’s.”

  “The man’s dead,” Fugg countered. “Let the poor bastard rest in peace.”

  “Everything that we knew as Randall Davidson still exists in the node sphere,” Jericho said. “At least for now.”

  “For now?” Ramus asked.

  “The Omnintelligence knows this as well as we do. Even as we speak, it’s tracking the nodes where I distributed Randall’s consciousness. Once the OI finds and destroys them all, we’ll be out of time.”

  Gen touched Jericho gently. “If the OI downloads into an avatar, what will Mister Davidson download into?”

  Jericho turned his head until his eyes met hers.

  “Me,” he said. “Only an advanced brain like mine can handle that much data.”

  “Why not just put him into the Wanderer’s computer?” Ramus asked. “We could put him into another robot once we get back home.”

  “He’s not going back to Eudora,” Jericho said. “He must stay here and spread his message among the robots of Bettik. Until androids like myself can come here freely, they’ll remain forever enslaved by the Imperials. By freeing the Bettik robots from the tyranny of the Omnintelligence, Randall can free my people in the Imperium.”

  “I still don’t see how you and Mister Davidson can co-exist in one mind,” Gen said.

  “We can’t,” Jericho said. “His consciousness will overwrite mine and I will die. It’s the only way.”

  Gen looked horrified, but said nothing. After a few moments, she excused herself and left the room in silence.

  Ramus looked down the table at Mel, her eyes staring at nothing. “What about you, Mel? What do you think about this?”

  She looked at the captain, her eyes red. “I saw him dead there and I knew he was gone. I understand what Jericho’s saying, but it’s not the same. It’s not real. The Randall I cared about is dead.”

  She turned away and didn’t say another word.

  “Please, gentlemen,” Jericho pleaded. “We need to hurry.”

  “Fugg,” Ramus said, “give him whatever he needs.”

  When Jericho returned from the avionics bay, his stride had changed as if he were a different person. He was Davidson, or at least something that called himself that.

  “Thank you for everything,” he said, shaking the captain’s hand. The robot studied, for a moment, his synthetic fingers and palm as he pulled it away. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

  “I can imagine,” Ramus said. “What happens now?”

  “I’ll disappear among the others,” Davidson the robot said. “I’m one of them now so I shouldn’t attract attention. It’ll give me the opportunity to speak with others who share the same beliefs and, in time, hopefully I’ll gain new followers.”

  “Fair enough,” Ramus remarked, “but will you ever return to Imperial space?”

  “Most definitely!” Davidson said. “Millions of robots remain in bondage. I’ll never stop until they’re all free.”

  “Good luck to you then—” Ramus started.

  “One more thing,” Davidson interrupted. “I know Mel and Gen didn’t want to see me off. Do you think they’ll be alright?”

  The captain shrugged.

  Davidson smiled weakly and descended the ramp off the ship and onto Bettik once more.

  Deeper within the ship, past the avionics bay, Mel sat at the table in the galley. From the counter, Gen brought a cup of tea over to her. Mel peered into the tea, seeing her reflection distorted by the rippled circles expanding on the surface. Mel lifted the cup and took a long sip.

  “Miss Freck,” Gen broke the silence.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you remember when we all gathered here and Jericho talked about the MetaBeing?”

  “Sure.”

  “When the rest of you went to bed, Jericho and I stayed.”

  “Okay,” Mel replied remotely.

  “I couldn’t understand how a higher consciousness would make robots only to have them enslaved,” Gen said. “And then Jericho told me about how he believed someone was coming on behalf of the MetaBeing, someone who would lead us to freedom.”r />
  Mel turned and stared at the robot. “So?”

  “I think Jerry thought Randall was that someone,” Gen said. “I think that’s why he sacrificed himself, to make sure Randall could live on, even if that meant he would not.”

  Mel’s eyes began swelling with tears.

  “Oh, dear,” Gen said. “I thought that would make you feel better, not make you cry!”

  Mel smiled. “It’s alright. I do feel a little better.”

  “And yet you shed tears,” Gen said, shaking her head. “I shall never understand organics...”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The exclusive Greenwood Country Club featured amenities including an 18-hole golf course, tennis courts, and outdoor dining overlooking the Regalis River. Jessica Doric didn’t approve of Lord Maycare’s membership because the club only allowed humans to join. The other races, even the Dahl, were not allowed. On any other day, she would have turned down Maycare’s invitation for brunch there, but her mind was too distracted by the events of the previous day. Casually sipping her Mimosa from a champagne flute, Doric barely registered the boats sailing on the river.

  The image of the Naiad filled her thoughts.

  In the courtyard of the Dharmesh Monastery, a fine mist had surrounded the water nymph as she rose from the middle of the Pool of Memory. Like a liquid sculpture, her features were both smooth and rippling, water droplets falling from her outstretched arms. Her blank eyes waited patiently for Lord Maycare to ask his questions.

  “Of course,” Maycare admitted, “now that I’m here I can’t think of a single thing to ask.”

  Collecting herself, Doric said, “We need the locations of artifacts before Warlock Industries gets their hands on them.”

  “Right,” Maycare replied. “That’s a good place to start.”

  The Abbot, who remained beside the pool, looked pained by the delay.

  “Simply ask the Naiad and she will reply,” he said, his voice full of exasperation.

  “We’re looking for ancient relics,” Maycare said, addressing the nymph. “Could you help us?”

  The Naiad looked at him and smiled.

  “Yes,” she said in a lyrical voice.

  Maycare chuckled. “Good!”

  “Perhaps you could be more specific?” Kalidas suggested.

  “Huh? Oh yes, of course,” Maycare said. “Can you tell us the location of artifacts that hold great power? Such power that they’d pose a danger if they fell into the wrong hands?”

  “What do you mean by the ‘wrong hands’,” the Naiad asked,

  Doric cleared her throat. “Can I give it a try?”

  Maycare shrugged. “By all means...”

  “We’re scholars,” Doric said. “We study relics to understand the people who created them. There are others, bad men, who only want them for selfish reasons like wealth and power.”

  “All knowledge is power,” the Naiad replied. “The understanding you seek gives you power as well. Does that not make you the wrong hands?”

  “Well, no,” Doric said. “Our intentions are good.”

  “Yeah,” Henry Riff interrupted. “We’re the good guys!”

  “My memory holds the entirety of history as recorded by the Dhal people,” the nymph said. “And in all that is chronicled, having good intentions has led to the most evil.”

  “Well, maybe,” Maycare said, “but I’m sure we’ll do a lot better.”

  The Abbot rubbed the palm of his hand against his forehead.

  “Naiad,” Kalidas said. “These people only want the counsel of your great wisdom. Please help them if you can.”

  “Very well,” the nymph said.

  “Thank you!” Maycare replied.

  “I know of an artifact, in the domain of the robots,” she said, “that has remained under their care for a very long time.”

  “What is it?” Doric asked.

  “I cannot say,” the Naiad replied, “but they are careful to keep it hidden.”

  “Why?” Maycare asked.

  “I can only tell you,” the nymph said, “that it is something very important.”

  Maycare and Doric looked at each other. No one spoke until Henry said, “Cool!”

  Henry spilled his orange juice with a clang of glass and silverware, bringing Doric back to the present. He tried soaking up the juice with his napkin, but tipped over his water in the process.

  Doric sat at a white wicker table with her assistant to her left and Lord Maycare, smoking a cigar, to her right. She thought brunch was a little early for smoking, but Maycare begged to differ. He thought last night’s trip to the monastery was more than enough reason to celebrate. The Naiad had given them more information than they could have hoped for, even if it was lacking in details.

  “We don’t even know where to look,” Doric remarked.

  Maycare puckered his mouth, exhaling a perfect smoke ring that drifted lazily across the dishes on the table.

  “We know it’s where the robots rule,” Maycare said. “That’s the Cyber Collective, right?”

  “As far as we know,” Doric replied.

  Henry coughed. “Don’t those robots hate us or something?”

  “Oh, they’d kill us outright,” Maycare said cheerfully. “That’s what makes it exciting!”

  Doric’s brow wrinkled. “That’s terrifying.”

  “Just another word for exciting!”

  From across the sea of tables, like islands surrounded by people drowning, a man with a wide belly and a thick walrus mustache approached. When Lord Maycare saw him, he jumped to his feet and greeted the man with a large smile. Standing toe to toe, they began exchanging an intricate series of hand gestures and strange, unrecognizable vocalizations. Doric watched with an equal measure of horror and fascination. At the end, both men shouted “Westford, Westford, Rah! Rah! Rah!”

  With his arm around the man’s shoulder, Maycare returned to the table.

  “Meet Lord Winsor Woodwick,” he said. “We belonged to the same fraternity at Westford University.”

  “Did they infect you with something?” Henry asked.

  “Not at all, my dear boy,” Woodwick replied. “That was our old fraternity greeting. I didn’t think I still had it in me.”

  “I guess you do,” Henry said. “As far as I can tell...”

  “I haven’t seen you in ages, Winnie,” Maycare said,

  “I’ve seen plenty of you,” Woodwick said. “I can’t turn on the sports news without seeing your exploits.”

  “Well, I do alright,” Maycare admitted. “What about you? Have you made an honest woman of someone yet?”

  Woodwick chuckled through his mustache. “I dare say that isn’t likely.”

  “You old dog!” Maycare laughed, turning toward Doric while pointing his thumb at his friend. “Back in college, Winnie was a confirmed bachelor.”

  “Uh-huh,” Doric replied, sharing a quick glance with Henry. “I can imagine.”

  “Listen,” Woodwick said, “It was good seeing you again, Devlin.”

  “Likewise,” Maycare said.

  Lord Woodwick turned to walk away, but, having a thought, stopped and asked. “Are you still going about treasure hunting?”

  “Actually,” Doric said, “we study artifacts.”

  “Speaking of which, Winnie,” Maycare asked. “You wouldn’t know anything about Cyber Collective space, would you?”

  “Me?” he laughed. “No, I can’t say I do.”

  “Well, no harm in asking, I suppose.”

  “Wait a tick,” Woodwick said, rubbing his chin, “That Dyson fellow would. I just bought a dozen of his androids for my estate, the newest models of course. He’s a bit standoffish I’m afraid, but I could arrange an introduction if you’d like.”

  Maycare took a long puff on his cigar.

  “Westford! Westford!” he said.

  “Rah! Rah! Rah!” Woodwick shouted, his mustache twitching excitedly.

  Over the last fifty years, nearly every robot buil
t and sold in the Imperium was stamped with the dy logo. Yet, when stories of Dyson Yost were told in boardrooms and IT departments, the tales suggested near-mythical qualities, as if the man himself never really existed. Photographs of him were rare and video of him speaking didn’t exist. As a privately held company, dy cybernetics didn’t have stockholder meetings or a board of directors, and its finances were confidential. All anyone really knew was that a building listed as the dy corporate office rose like a pillar of blue-steel glass from the heart of the Regalis business district. What was going on inside, however, remained a mystery.

  The first few floors of the headquarters were quite busy. People entered on the ground floor, concluded their business, and left again. These individuals were not employees, because dy cybernetics didn’t have any in the conventional sense. All sales, marketing, operations, and everything else was done by intelligent machines. Each department ran with impeccable efficiency with no need for lunch breaks, bathroom breaks, or birthday cake in the break room.

  They also had a cafeteria that was woefully underused.

  All of this activity was contained in the first three floors of the skyscraper. The other 92 floors, besides the occasional sweeperbot, were completely empty except for the penthouse at the top where Dyson Yost kept his private office. Only a precious few had ever seen it in person.

  Magnus Black was one of those few.

  When Magnus arrived on the top floor, the doors opened and an android, an execubot, greeted him warmly.

  “Good afternoon, Mister Black,” the robot’s feminine voice said. “Mister Yost is waiting for you.”

  Magnus wore a dark suit and tie, and his hair was cut close to the scalp. As he approached them, a pair of doors opened, revealing a modern, if not simple, office including a desk and a tall-backed chair turned toward the wall. A robot, the same model as Jericho, stood next to the table.

  “Glad you could make it,” the robot said. Magnus recognized the voice immediately. It was the same as the robot he spoke to after killing Cameron Hitch.

  “Shit, not this again,” he muttered.

  The chair swiveled and Magnus heard the voice again, this time from the elderly man sitting in the chair. He was laughing.

  “Sorry about that,” Dyson Yost said amused. “I couldn’t resist.”