Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  “What is this?” Santos asked, setting aside his empty glass.

  “I’m uncertain,” the AI said. “The external feed appears to be compromised.”

  “Compromised? You mean hacked?”

  “It seems to be a direct transmission, but I cannot determine its origin.”

  From the speakers built around the couch, a man’s voice narrated the scenes.

  “These are pictures the Emperor doesn’t want you to see,” he said. “The Imperium came to Marakata as colonialists, but stayed as occupiers. The Draconian people have suffered ever since.”

  Reptilian figures crossed the screen running, fire and smoke in the background. The echo of screaming reverberated against the walls of Santos’ living room. The din of explosions shook the couch. Santos jumped to his feet.

  The scene faded to black, superimposed with the words Free Marakata written as if by spray paint across the dark screen.

  “The transmission has ended,” the AI said. “Would you like to hear some music?”

  “No, thank you,” Santos said, eyeing the empty glass.

  “Would you like some more wine?”

  “I’ve had enough,” he replied and then, after a long pause, “I want to know more about Marakata. Tell me everything...”

  In Lab 22, in the depths of Warlock Headquarters, Lars Hatcher sat in a medical chair with a tube running from his arm to a bag of green fluid hanging from a rack. Dr. Sprouse, wearing her white lab coat, stood beside him, moving a scanning device over his body.

  “What is this?” Lars asked, his chin pointing to the bag.

  “My latest cocktail,” the doctor replied. “I’ve made some tweaks to my last formula. This should clear up those headaches you were having.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her red lips parted into a smile. “You’re welcome.”

  “What happened to Agent Skarlander’s last metamind?”

  Dr. Sprouse switched the scanning device off and placed it on a metal tray beside the chair.

  “He died,” she said.

  “Was it Agent Skarlander’s fault?”

  Her eyebrows drew upward into a peak. She shrugged.

  “You realize I can read your mind,” Lars said.

  “Then why bother asking questions?” she replied.

  Lars thought for a moment, his enormous head throbbing slightly. “To be polite, I suppose.”

  Dr. Sprouse smiled again and patted him on the chest. “Good boy!”

  The doctor went to a refrigerated cabinet, took out another bag of green fluid, and returned to the chair to replace the bag that was now almost empty. Pulling the tube from the old bag, she attached it to the new one and made sure the flow was dripping properly.

  “He’s a clone, isn’t he?” Lars asked, again being polite.

  “Of course.”

  “I thought human cloning was illegal in the Imperium.”

  “You could say the same about genetic manipulation,” Dr. Sprouse said. “Not all laws are for all people.”

  “Warlock Industries is exempt, I take it?”

  “It’s a powerful corporation. We have many friends in government and the military. It’s just the way of things...”

  The doctor retrieved the scanner and began waving it over her patient.

  “You were lovers?” Lars asked suddenly.

  Dr. Sprouse paused, the scanner shaking slightly, before starting again.

  “I meant with Mr. Skarlander,” Lars clarified.

  “I see you’ve stopped being polite.”

  “It was obvious, the way he looked at you... the way he let you speak to him.”

  “As I said,” the doctor replied, “it’s the way of things. Besides, it’s over now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course!”

  “I wonder if he feels the same way.”

  Dr. Sprouse shook her head. “I don’t think he feels... anything at all.”

  Lars watched the green cocktail, as she had put it, twist its way down the tube and into his arm. The veins beneath his pale skin were dark and winding like a road through a snowy countryside.

  “Clone or not,” he said, “he’s still human.”

  “Maybe,” she replied.

  “And what am I?” Lars asked.

  She looked up at him. Her eyes, a lighter shade of green than her new formula, fixed on his, which were simple black orbs.

  “Whatever you want to be,” she said. “I’ve made sure of that.”

  Built to her specifications, Lady Nasri’s estate was like an Ottoman palace with arabesque calligraphy featured predominantly along halls lined with marble columns capped with gold leaf. Persian rugs were spread across expansive floors and large, luxurious couches were covered in decorative pillows. The estate’s AI, which Nasri had named Abida meaning one who worships, was dedicated to making her mistress’s life as comfortable as possible.

  Every morning at precisely 9 AM, Nasri woke to the cries of peacocks played over speakers concealed in her bedroom. After a long bath, she dressed in a silk robe and went to breakfast where a bowl filled with chickpeas mixed with yogurt and garlic waited for her, placed by an unseen robot from the kitchen.

  Once finished, she returned to her bedroom where a walk-in closet contained an assortment of clothes. Casual wear hung to the right, while formal wear and gowns took up most of the left. In the center, flanked by cushioned benches, an island of jewelry drawers was filled with the baubles Nasri had purchased with her newfound wealth.

  “Abida,” Nasri said, “do I have any appointments today?”

  “No, My Lady,” the AI replied. “However, I’ve saved a snippet from the news you may be interested in.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “It involves Lord Santos.”

  “Shit.”

  After changing from her robe into a sleeveless, black dress, Nasri positioned herself on a deep couch. Propping cushions against her back, she faced an archway twelve feet across and nearly twice as high, through which a courtyard was visible with a few small trees and a fountain in the center.

  “Play it,” she said.

  The space inside the archway turned solid, displaying Sylvia Flax reading the news.

  “A demonstration was held in the capital today,” she said, “protesting the occupation of Marakata.”

  Video of people holding signs and chanting slogans appeared on the screen. Most of the placards were variations of the theme to free Marakata and stop oppressing the Draconian people. Although Nasri had seen other news reports about the topic, she was confident the government knew what they were doing. Whoever these Draconians were, they were no business of hers.

  Then a familiar face showed himself, larger than life, in the archway.

  Standing on a crude stage, surrounded by demonstrators, Lord Santos thrust his fist into the air, shouting loudly.

  “What we’re doing on Marakata is wrong!” he yelled to the approving crowd. “I came from poverty and I recognize the repression of the Draconians, because I’ve lived through it myself! They are our brothers and sisters, and no matter their race or their background, we must stand with them in their struggle. I say this to the Emperor: Stop the occupation now!”

  Flax reappeared.

  “Asked for comment,” she said, “the Palace declined to do so at this time.”

  The screen dissolved away, replaced by the courtyard in the distance.

  “That idiot!” Nasri shouted, digging her fists into the couch. She threw one of the pillows across the room where a small robot collected it and scurried away.

  “You have a new message, My Lady,” Abida said.

  “I don’t care!”

  “It’s from Prince Richard.”

  “What does he want?” Nasri asked while exhaling sharply.

  “He’s requesting your presence at a sporting event tomorrow,” the AI went on. “He suggests such a public meeting could be useful under the current circumstances.”

 
Nasri tapped her long nails against her chin.

  “Hmm,” she murmured. “What kind of sporting event?”

  “It appears to be a gravbike race, my lady. The Regalis Cup.”

  “What does one wear to a gravbike race?” Nasri asked.

  “As always,” the AI replied, “I’m happy to help...”

  The grandstands, garnished with red and gold bunting, ran along the shore of the Regalis River. Riders on gravbikes maneuvered through hoops, ten feet in diameter, levitating high above the water. In a pair of boxed seats, Lord Winsor Woodwick and Lord Radford Groen were drinking and watching the race.

  Woodwick, a middle-aged man with rounded features and a walrus mustache, brought a gin and tonic to his lips. From English aristocracy, he could tell the difference between top-shelf gin and whatever rubbing alcohol his glass was filled with.

  “I say, Radford,” Woodwick said, swishing his mustache. “I think that bartenderbot is trying to kill me!”

  Reviewing a betting sheet, Radford muttered without looking up, “Wouldn’t be the first.”

  A few years younger than his companion, Groen was losing his hair faster than his money, but didn’t seem to notice either. He fumbled for a glass of whiskey on the tray beside him, his eyes fixed on the datapad in his lap.

  “Maycare’s in the next race,” he noted aloud.

  “You’re not going to bet against him again, are you, old chap?” Woodwick asked, peering over Groen’s shoulder.

  “His luck can’t hold forever.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it!”

  “I already did,” Groen replied.

  Woodwick rolled his baggy eyes. “Well, you’re buggered then. You haven’t a chance.”

  “I always have a chance.”

  With a shake of his head, Woodwick took another sip from his glass and instantly regretted it. “Awful!”

  He set the drink aside but nearly missed the tray as something in the grandstand caught his eye.

  “Good lord!” he said, elbowing Groen’s arm. “Isn’t that Lady Nasri?”

  Across the heads and hats of a few dozen onlookers, a woman was making her way up the stairs to the Emperor’s box. Prince Richard stood to greet her.

  “And the Prince no less,” Woodwick went on. “You don’t usually see him at a sporting event. Not his cup of tea, I’d say.”

  “So?” Groen replied.

  “Try to keep up, Radford! Such a public display? Something’s afoot...”

  “I don’t care.”

  “It’s about Lord Santos, I’d wager,” Woodwick said, pulling the tip of his mustache. “Did you see him on the news last night? He’s really stepped in it with this whole Marakata business. Quite a kerfuffle if you ask me.”

  “Nobody’s asking you,” Groen said bluntly. “I’m sure they know what they’re doing.”

  “Humph!” Woodwick replied, crossing his portly arms. Then, in a low tone, he murmured, “It’ll all end in tears...”

  Prince Richard waited for Lady Nasri to arrive. She was late, which was not unexpected. When he finally saw her making her way up the grandstand stairs, she was wearing a white dress, contrasting well with her olive skin, and a floppy sun hat. She had adjusted well to her new status, the prince thought. Perhaps a bit too well.

  The prince stood and greeted Nasri with a smile and a shake of his hand — Richard was not a hugger — and the two sat in the Emperor’s box while the gravbike race proceeded over the Regalis River. A servantbot brought a tray of drinks, each with a spiral of orange peel draped over the side. Richard didn’t drink, but he took one anyway just to be polite.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” Lady Nasri said, the wide brim of her hat keeping her face in shadow.

  “Of course, the pleasure is mine,” the prince replied graciously.

  Nasri took a taste and smiled, setting the glass down again. Richard raised his glass to her in a salute, then gave it back to the robot who took it away.

  “Is this your first gravbike race?” the prince asked.

  “I suppose it must be,” she replied. “There wasn’t a lot of sports on the Sterope.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “But this is certainly an interesting spectacle.”

  “Yes,” Richard said, “they hold the Regalis Cup once a year. Everyone who’s anyone comes to see and be seen...”

  “Is that why you asked me here?” Nasri asked.

  “I was planning on it anyway, but I think the timing is fortunate.”

  Nasri raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lips following suit. “How so?”

  “The Emperor has some concerns...”

  “Really? What kind of concerns?”

  “Your relationship with Lord Tagus, for one,” the prince replied, “but perhaps more pressingly, the behavior of Lord Santos.”

  Nasri shook her head, dipping her hat so her eyes were hidden for a moment.

  “As for Lord Tagus,” she said, “I have nothing but respect and admiration for him and his family, but that is all. I’m quite aware of his past history with Emperor Augustus—”

  “Tagus’ son tried to overthrow my father...”

  “—but I want no part of that,” she went on. “I’m merely finding my way for now and part of that is talking with the other families.”

  “And so you should,” the prince said. “I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

  A gravbike, twirling through a floating hoop over the river, lost control and fell into the water with a towering splash.

  “As for Lord Santos,” Nasri said, ignoring the crash, “I’m not sure what my fellow captain is up to these days.”

  “His behavior of late is troubling,” Richard said, leaning closer. “The Emperor is not amused.”

  “Nor should he be...”

  “It’s important that the Five — sorry, make that Seven — Families remain a united front when it comes to Imperial business, our own petty squabbling notwithstanding.”

  “I understand,” Nasri said. “I hope Lord Santos can be made to see reason.”

  “So do I,” Richard replied. “Perhaps you could help him see the light?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  On the planet Lokeren, Philip Veber watched the birds, their colorful wings flashing against the azure sky, while he stood alone on the clifftops. His gray eyes followed the little creatures darting in and out of nests hidden among the rocky crags beneath his feet. Against Philip’s bald scalp, the rays from the sun felt harsh, but not uncomfortable. An amulet with an eight-pointed star hung around his neck.

  His mother was calling.

  “Philip?” she said, walking down the path from the estate to join him. “You shouldn’t be out by yourself.”

  “I’m fine,” he replied. “Better than fine.”

  Her dress billowing in the cool wind coming off the sea, Lady Veber joined her son, taking his hand.

  “Until we know you’re no longer sick,” she said, “I don’t want you wandering off unattended.”

  Philip felt his mother’s warm blood pumping through her hand. He knew his own hand felt like ice. He turned toward her, his features sunken and pale.

  “I may not look it,” he consoled her, “but I’m as well as I’ve ever been.” He saw the concern in her eyes, but felt only irritation. “Really!” he protested.

  “Alright, dear,” Lady Veber replied. “It’s just a miracle I have you back at all.”

  “You needn’t worry, mother. The Necronea have seen to that.”

  “I wish I knew more about the Necronea...”

  “I can’t say I understand them myself,” Philip admitted. “That holy man, Ghazul, tried explaining them to me. The Necronea tapped into a power — a force of some kind — that transcends death. I’m sure there must be a scientific explanation but I’m not a scientist. All I know is, I was dead and now I’m not anymore.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Being dead?
” Philip asked, then shrugged. “Nothing as far as I can remember. There was no passage of time. I heard your voice as I was dying and then I heard Ghazul chanting when I opened my eyes again. It was black... just nothing.”

  Lady Veber sighed.

  “Disappointed?” her son asked.

  “No, I suppose not. I just thought—”

  “Something about an afterlife?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, taking a deep breath in the salty air. “It’s just as well. Having you back is all I really care about.”

  She released his hand, which fell to his side.

  “Will you be returning to the capital soon?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied. “If you’re feeling better, I should visit the palace and pay my respects to the Emperor.”

  “Does he know I’m alive?”

  “I’m sure a little bird told him,” Lady Veber said. “There’s not much he doesn’t hear about.”

  “Safe journeys then,” Philip said with a thin smile. “And don’t worry about me when you’re gone. I’ve never felt better.”

  She laughed, turning to go. “Good!”

  When his mother had left and Philip was once again alone, he surveyed the view from the top of the cliffs. He held out his hand and one of the tiny birds landed on his outstretched fingers. Swiveling its head, the bird eyed Philip but didn’t fly away.

  Quickly, Philip captured the bird inside his cupped hands. He felt its soft, delicate feathers brushing up against the skin. Slowly, while his gray eyes stared out over the water, he pressed his hands together until the bird stopped moving. He opened his hands and the lifeless bird fell from his grasp into the crashing surf below.

  Chapter Eight

  Like a ripple in a pond of stars, the Wanderer emerged from hyperspace above a turquoise planet. A gray freighter 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 on auxiliary power.”

  “Are we boarding her or what?”

  “Meet me by the airlock.”

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