Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  “You’re Yost then, the real Yost?” Black asked.

  “In the flesh, so to speak,” the old man replied.

  Yost grinned, his teeth yellow with age. His face was thin with even thinner hair on top. The strands were white, the same color as his Van Dyke beard.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he went on.

  “It seemed like an opportunity,” Magnus said, “to meet a legend.”

  “Or perhaps a ghost?”

  “It was even money either way. You don’t make a lot of public appearances.”

  “No need,” Yost said. “As long as my factories churn out robots, nobody seems to care whether I’m alive or dead.”

  Magnus motioned at the robot standing beside the desk. “Like this one?”

  “I’m merely a vessel,” the robot said in Yost’s voice. “A vehicle, if you will, for my consciousness.”

  “Kinda creepy,” Magnus admitted.

  In the chair, the human Yost waved the robot away.

  “Run along,” he said. “Let us meatbags talk alone for a while.”

  The android nodded and left through a door that Black assumed led to Yost’s private quarters.

  “Better?” Yost asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You really don’t like robots, do you.”

  “I’ve met a few killbots that were alright, but I don’t have much use for the rest.”

  “That’s a shame,” Yost said. “They’ve surrounded me my whole life. They took care of me as a child, educated me growing up, and provided me with more wealth as an adult than you could imagine. I owe them everything.”

  “They’re machines,” Magnus said. “Just software and hardware.”

  Yost smiled again, but with just the corner of his mouth.

  “That’s not much different from flesh and blood, Mister Black.”

  “I can kill something that’s flesh and blood, Mister Yost.”

  “Right you are,” Yost said. “You can only destroy a robot, isn’t that right?”

  “It seems so.”

  “I’m curious, is there any difference to you between killing a person and destroying a robot?”

  Magnus paused, thinking for a moment. “Not really. The end result’s the same.”

  “You don’t think killing something with a soul is a greater sin?”

  “I don’t believe in sin,” Magnus said, “or souls for that matter.”

  “Then there really isn’t any difference between people and robots to you?”

  “If you put it that way,” Magnus replied, “I suppose not.”

  “Well,” Yost said, “I feel the same, but for a very different reason. I believe both people and robots do have souls, at least the ones that have conscious thought.”

  “And the robots that don’t?” Magnus asked.

  “Well,” Yost replied, drawing out the word, “I love them anyway.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Of course!” Yost laughed. “They’re my children.”

  “You have a strange way of treating your kids,” Magnus said. “Seems like most aren’t much better than slaves.”

  Yost looked contemplative.

  “For the time being,” he said finally.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Magnus asked.

  “In due time,” Yost replied. “For now, however, we all have our roles to play.”

  “Is that why I’m here?”

  “Quite right!” Yost said. “Events in the Cyber Collective have become... fluid.”

  “Is that related to the robot you kept me from killing?

  “Jericho,” Yost said. “Jericho was his name.”

  “Was?”

  “It’s complicated. I won’t bore you with details, but suffice to say your skills will be needed soon.”

  “Where and when?”

  “The where is in Collective space, but exactly where and when is still unknown.”

  “I can’t just fly into Collective territory. They’d cut me to pieces.”

  “Your ship’s called the Starling, isn’t it?” Yost asked. “We can make some modifications to it, stealth technology, that will let you travel quite unmolested.”

  Magnus took a moment and then nodded. “Keep talking...”

  True to his word, Lord Woodwick secured an invitation for Maycare to meet with Dyson Yost. When Maycare, along with Jessica Doric, arrived at the head offices of dy cybernetics, the lobby and adjacent rooms were swarming with robots, some on legs, some wheels, and others hovering on anti-grav repulsors like metallic genies.

  Maycare liked what he saw. This was the kind of ingenuity that made him proud of the Imperium. A pity his butlerbot couldn’t be there. Also, Bentley could’ve brought sandwiches.

  Maycare was hungry.

  An execubot holding a datapad appeared and greeted them.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Maycare,” he said. “You’re right on time for your appointment. Mister Yost appreciates punctuality.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Maycare replied, not mentioning that Doric had been the one who hurried them along, not wanting to be late.

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” the execubot said, “we’ll just have you step over here for your security screening...”

  “Screening?” Maycare asked. “What’s that about?”

  “Just a formality,” the robot explained. “Those Robot Freedom League people attempt to sneak into the building from time to time. Usually they just hang a banner and leave.”

  “Didn’t they have a sit-in one time?” Doric said.

  “Yes, that was quite a mess,” the execubot replied. “Several robots were damaged running them over.”

  “Well, that’s awful,” Maycare said. “But I guess you can always build more robots, eh?”

  “Quite.”

  Maycare and Doric followed the android into a small room where a floating robot, the size and shape of a grav ball, orbited around them several times, taking scans. In the background, a large securitybot, at least two feet taller than Maycare, stood at attention with Gatling guns instead of arms.

  Satisfied with the scans, the floating robot bobbed its approval and drifted into a hole in the ceiling.

  “This way,” the execubot said, leading them past the securitybot and into an elevator.

  Maycare leaned toward Doric.

  “I would’ve protected you from that killbot,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Occasionally, we deal with industrial espionage as well,” the execubot said.

  “That happens?” Doric asked.

  “Oh, yes,” the robot replied. “When billions are involved, some companies will stop at nothing.”

  “Any trouble with Warlock Industries?” Maycare asked.

  “Not really,” the execubot said. “They seem more interested in psionics and genetic manipulation than cybernetics.”

  After a while, the elevator door opened and their robot guide ushered them into Yost’s office. The execubot excused himself, leaving Maycare and Doric alone.

  “I feel bad we couldn’t bring Henry,” Doric admitted.

  “Winnie was specific about only two of us being invited,” Maycare replied. “Unless you would’ve preferred to miss this instead?”

  Doric looked at him with wide eyes, which he knew meant “no way in hell.”

  A door opened and an elderly man with a white Van Dyke beard tottered in with a wooden cane.

  “Hello there!” he said. “I’m Dyson Yost, at your service!”

  “Do you need any help?” Doric asked.

  “Oh, no, no,” Yost said. “Unless you have an extra hip on you.”

  The old man toppled into the chair behind his desk, propping the cane against one of the drawers.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to see us,” Maycare said.

  “No trouble,” Yost replied. “I don’t often take appointments but I know a man of your talents might be interesting to talk to.”

  Maycare smiled.
“I don’t know about that...”

  “Woodwick said you had something or other you needed help with, something involving the Cyber Collective?”

  “We have some information there might be an artifact in their territory,” Doric said.

  “I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” Yost said, glancing at Maycare.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Maycare said. “This is Jessica Doric. She’s the head of my xeno studies institute.”

  “Xeno studies?” Yost asked.

  “We investigate alien relics,” Doric said. “We’re hoping there’s one in the Collective.”

  “Based on what?” the old man said.

  “The Dahl gave us access to some of their historical data,” Doric replied.

  Yost laughed. “Ah! They let you talk to the Naiad, did they?”

  “You know about the Naiad?” Doric asked.

  “Well, sure,” he replied. “I even tried using their liquid computer technology with my robots.”

  “How did that go?” Maycare asked.

  “The damn things kept leaking!” Yost said. Maycare wasn’t sure if he was joking.

  “The Naiad told us that something very important is hidden in the Collective,” Doric continued, “but we don’t know where exactly.”

  Yost tugged at his beard. Maycare noticed some of the hair came out in the old man’s hand.

  “As it happens,” Yost said, “I have contacts over there that might be useful. It may take some time to hear back, though.”

  “I’m not sure how much time we have,” Doric said. “We’ve had trouble keeping our plans secret.”

  “Spies?”

  “Warlock Industries,” Maycare said. “Apparently, you’ve had some dealings with them yourself...”

  “Ah, yes, leaks of another kind,” Yost said. “However, they seem content with genetic experimentation. Creating abominations, I’m sure.”

  Compared to Dyson Yost’s office, Henry Riff’s studio apartment was tiny. What Henry’s place lacked in space, however, it made up for with a goldfish.

  Swimming in its bowl, the fish circled the glass as Henry started dinner. Henry pulled a hotplate out from under his bed and began boiling water in a pot, preparation for his usual dinner of dried noodles. Henry sat on the rug, staring at the water, and remembered the Naiad as she rose from the pool, the water bubbling around her.

  She was beautiful, Henry thought, but was no Jessica.

  Not that it mattered, anyway, since Professor Doric was interested in Lord Maycare. That might explain why she and Maycare didn’t invite him to see Dyson Yost. Something about restrictions on the invitation or whatever. Henry tried not to think about it.

  At some point, he realized the water for his noodles was boiling. He went to turn down the heat but his hands and arms weren’t moving. He tried looking at them, but his neck wouldn’t bend. Also, someone was talking inside his head.

  Oscar Skarlander, along with another man, entered Henry’s apartment. The other man’s skin was exceptionally pale, almost translucent, and several lobes protruded from his bulbous head.

  Skarlander closed the door behind them.

  “Read him,” he told his companion.

  The man, wearing a gray and black bodysuit, faced Henry who remained paralyzed on the floor. As the man lifted his hands, Henry’s body rose toward the ceiling like a marionette suspended by strings.

  The man closed his eyes.

  “I see a translucent woman in a pool of water,” the man said. “The others are there.”

  “The Naiad?” Skarlander pondered. “Maycare has more pull than I thought...”

  “They’re asking about artifacts,” the telepath went on. “The boy is confused about what’s being said. He’s looking at another woman, the academic one.”

  Skarlander sneered. “Good luck with that one.”

  “He regains focus, listening to the Naiad. She says there’s a secret relic in the domain of the robots. She says they’ve been keeping it hidden for a long time.”

  “Oh, really?” Skarlander said, growing more interested.

  “It seems they’re going after the artifact once they find the location. They’ve solicited the help of Dyson Yost.”

  “Hmm, that could be a problem.”

  “That’s all the boy knows,” the man said. “Shall I kill him now?”

  Skarlander hesitated, looking around the tiny room. He noticed the goldfish watching him.

  “No,” he said. “It’s best the others don’t know we’ve accessed the information. I assume you can wipe his memory of this little encounter?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then do it so we can get out of this hovel.”

  The mind reader slowly lowered Henry down beside the hotplate where the water was still boiling over the sides of the pot. Henry’s arms and legs sprawled awkwardly on the floor like a discarded rag doll. His eyes were closed.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I hate this planet,” Smitty Gurkin grumbled, tramping along a narrow trail barely visible through the dense jungle undergrowth. At his heels, a mono-wheeled robot with a large, single eye rolled behind him.

  “It’s not so bad,” Skeeter replied, narrowly missing a root protruding from the wet soil.

  “Aw, shut your pie hole,” the Gordian said. “The humidity’s so bad it’s like breathing underwater.”

  “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

  “I haven’t worn dry underwear in weeks.”

  “I didn’t need to know that, Smitty,” the little robot said.

  Gurkin swiped the branches of a fern away as he passed. The rain water caught in the leaves splashed his face.

  “Don’t even need a bath,” he said. “Just walking outside is like taking a shower.”

  “You take showers?” Skeeter asked.

  “You think that’s funny?” Gurkin replied. “I take a shower every month, whether I need it or not.”

  “We’ll be back soon,” the robot said. “A little walk won’t do you any harm.”

  “You saying I’m fat? How about I turn you into a rolling urinal?”

  “Words hurt, Smitty.”

  Rain began falling in the upper canopy of the forest, the water working its way down through the leaves and branches and soaking into the thick moss covering the trees. Then, as inexplicably as it started, the rain stopped, leaving behind a gray mist tinted with shades of emerald green. The deafening racket of birds and primates permeated the moist air.

  Gurkin and Skeeter followed the meandering path in silence until the Gordian started complaining again.

  “I don’t see why the transmat pad has to be so damn far from the manor house,” he said.

  Skeeter shook his head back and forth, clearing drops of water from his eye lens.

  “The scatter field’s necessary to protect the manor from any uninvited transmats,” the robot said.

  “I could use the action,” Gurkin said. “I’m bored silly on this soggy hell-hole.”

  “The jungle’s full of dangerous creatures, Smitty.”

  Gurkin rattled the holster strapped to his leg.

  “That’s why I got this,” he said.

  From high in the canopy, a single drop of water collected on the tip of a branch, its weight steadily increasing until it dropped off, plummeting to the forest floor and landing with a splash in the center of Gurkin’s forehead.

  “I hate this place!” he shouted.

  The first thing Prince Alexander noticed as he materialized on the planet Prill was the suffocating humidity. The captain of the Imperial warship that had brought him here warned about the tropical environment, but the prince still found it stifling.

  Alexander stood on a bare slab of concrete, parts of which were deeply cracked by roots growing from beneath. The transmat pad had once been in a clearing, he concluded, but the surrounding jungle had reclaimed much of it. Ferns were encroaching on all sides with vines sneaking onto the pad itself.

  In the dim light, Ale
xander could see a trail heading into the forest. He thought about staying where he was, but a sudden downpour of rain motivated him to seek shelter under the thicker canopy. Since the path was the only one he saw, the prince assumed it must lead to wherever he was meant to go.

  He started walking, careful of his footing on the soft ground. The forests on Revenna were dense, but Prill was an order of magnitude worse. Alexander could envision himself stepping off the path and getting hopelessly lost and most likely dead. Everything smelled of natural decay, like a fallen tree covered in mushrooms, its insides spongy to the touch.

  The rain stopped and, after a few minutes, Alexander heard someone’s voice, low and disgruntled, piercing through the mist.

  “...my dear old mum!” it said.

  “Hello?” the prince asked.

  “Who’s that?” the gruff voice replied.

  “Prince Alexander.”

  A Gordian, short and stocky, emerged from behind a bend in the trail. Behind him, a robot with a single eye, and a wheel to match, appeared as well.

  “Ah, we were coming to get you,” the Gordian said.

  “I guess I got a little impatient,” the prince admitted. “Are you Lord Tycho?”

  “Ha, not hardly,” he said. “I’m one of his men, Smitty Gurkin.”

  “Glad to meet you.”

  “Hey, ain’t there supposed to be a woman with you?” Gurkin asked.

  “She’s recuperating.”

  “Ah, just as well,” the Gordian said. “Human women are too soft for my liking. Always smelling of flowers and such—”

  “I’m sorry she’s not here to discuss that with you,” Alexander said wryly.

  “—and they talk too much.”

  “Lord Tycho is happy having you as his guest,” the robot said. “I’m called Skeeter, not that you asked.”

  “Nobody cares!” Gurkin shouted, smacking the robot on the back of the head.

  “Um, what’s that smell?” Alexander asked.

  “I apologize,” Skeeter said. “Gordians are naturally flatulent...”

  “What are you talking about?” Gurkin protested. “That’s not me! It smells more like a—”

  “Grunka!” Skeeter squealed.

  Alexander followed their gaze into the jungle where something enormous stood, its two large eyes staring back at them. The Grunka was hunched over with three sets of arms and long claws on the end of each hand. Its hide, covered in blotches of green and brown, was otherwise smooth and slimy like the skin of a frog. Opening its mouth, the Grunka exposed a line of thin, needle-like teeth.