Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  “Welcome, My Lady,” Bentley said as the door to the gravcar swept open.

  “Thank you,” she replied, offering her hand to the robot so he could help her exit the vehicle.

  Safely standing on the gravel driveway, Lady Veber took a second to admire the battlements of the Maycare manor. Built like a castle, the home had a solid, masculine quality. Lady Veber kept a wry smile in check, wondering if the Maycares were compensating for something.

  “This way, please,” the butlerbot said.

  Lady Veber followed the robot into the main hall, crowded with a collection of artifacts from throughout the Imperium. Some were books or jewelry, all easily recognizable, while others, strangely shaped items with indiscernible engravings, were completely alien to her. Most of these were in display cases, presumably wired to alarms, and several glowed of their own accord. Lady Veber couldn’t begin to guess where Devlin Maycare had gotten them all.

  Bentley led her to a study were Lord Maycare greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

  “It’s good to see you, Becca,” he said with his usual familiarity that she found so irritating.

  “Hello, Devlin,” she replied.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages,” Maycare went on. “How have you been?”

  The robot, who lacked a trachea, made a noise that sounded vaguely like he was clearing his throat.

  “Oh, right!” Maycare said, snapping his fingers. “Your boy’s been sick. How’s he doing?”

  “Thank you for asking,” Lady Veber replied with a nod. “He was very ill, but he seems to be better now.”

  “Well, that’s certainly good news!”

  Emotions that she had kept hidden welled up in Lady Veber’s chest and made her skip a breath.

  “Are you alright?” Maycare asked.

  “Perhaps My Lady would care to sit?” Bentley suggested, offering one of the armchairs nearby.

  Comfortably seated, with Maycare sitting beside her, Lady Veber exhaled and tried to maintain an air of dignity. A woman in her position did not cry. That would be unacceptable.

  “I need your help, Devlin,” she said.

  Unlike Henry Riff’s apartment, Jessica Doric’s flat was carefully vacuumed, dusted, and the pillows matched the sofa. Also, instead of a pile on the floor, Doric’s books were arranged in mahogany bookcases that didn’t fall over.

  In an armchair beside a reading lamp, she held a book in her lap. A cup of tea, whiffs of steam curling upward, rested on the table next to the chair. It was late, but Doric made a point of some light reading before going to bed. The title of the book was Quantum Entanglement & the Modern Woman.

  Across the room, her phone chimed.

  Extracting herself from the chair, Doric nearly tripped over her flannel nightgown as she snatched the phone off the coffee table and looked at who was calling. With a sigh, she answered.

  “Lord Maycare,” she said.

  “Jess!” his voice erupted through the speaker. “I can’t see you.”

  “Just a sec...”

  Doric held the phone at arm’s length and flicked on the camera.

  “There you are!” Maycare said, his square jaw taking up most of the screen. “What the devil are you wearing?”

  Pulling the collar together with her free hand, Doric tried to avoid showing any more of her nightgown than necessary. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Can’t the old man call you once in a while? You know, just to see how things are going?”

  Despite herself, Doric grinned. “No, of course you can.”

  “Well good!” he said. “But actually, I’m calling about work...”

  She felt her eyes glaze over, her smile dissolving away. “Yes, sir.”

  “Lady Veber, of all people, just dropped by,” Maycare explained. “Something incredible has happened to her son.”

  “Oh? I heard he was sick...”

  “More than sick. The poor boy actually died!”

  “Good lord!”

  “But then he got better...”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Apparently, Lady Veber got mixed up with some cult leader named Ghazul. Ever heard of a race called the Necronea?”

  Doric’s eyes widened. “Actually, yes.”

  Maycare laughed. “I knew it! That’s why I called you.”

  “What does this have to do with Philip Veber?”

  “Well, this Ghazul fellow raised Philip from the dead.”

  “How is that possible?” Doric asked.

  “Hell if I know, Jess, but that’s what Lady Veber wants us to find out!”

  “Okay,” Doric replied. “I’ll start investigating in the morning. I should call Henry, too.”

  Maycare was smiling, but Doric thought he was looking unusually smug, even for him.

  “You know, Jess,” he said. “Bentley was just suggesting that I apologize to you.”

  Doric felt her chest tighten. “Why?”

  “For dumping that champagne on your head,” he replied. “I knew you would’ve forgotten about it by now.”

  “I didn’t forget.”

  “Well, Bentley said I was disrespectful, but I think his programming is off.”

  Doric nodded slowly, her fingers stiffening around the flannel in her hand.

  “It was all in good fun,” Maycare continued. “Can’t I have a little fun with you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Wait, I think you are mad...”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, don’t be! I mean, that’s just silly!”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Sure! I mean, there’s no reason to be sore about it, is there?”

  Doric didn’t reply.

  “Now, listen,” Maycare floundered. “I’m your boss so there’s no sense holding this over me so just get over it, for Pete’s sake!”

  “It’s really late,” Doric said, not looking at the screen anymore.

  “Hold on! You’re making this awkward... If anything, you should apologize to me!”

  “I’m going to bed.”

  “Alright,” Maycare replied, his dark eyebrows furrowed, “but I’ll expect you at the estate bright and early...”

  “No,” she replied.

  “What? Why not?”

  “I quit,” she said, stabbing at the END button.

  Since communications could not move faster than the speed of light, courier drones packed with data moved between the star systems of the Imperium, disseminating news, electronic correspondence, and anything else that needed knowing. A drone jumped into a system, dumped its data to a remote satellite, and then jumped away again, leaving the satellite to transmit the data to the local nodesphere. All information was heavily encrypted so only the intended recipients, in theory, would receive their messages.

  Orbiting a nondescript planet circling an unremarkable sun, Magnus Black’s spaceship, the Starling, passed silently through the darkness while its comm array pinged the local satellite, looking for messages.

  Magnus sat alone in the confined spaces of the galley, eating a packaged meal dispensed from a machine. The food, roast beef and mashed potatoes, was filled with nutrients and the faintest taste of rusted metal. Magnus stared into nothingness until a chime told him he had mail. He dumped the remainder of his feast into the matter reclaimer and climbed a ladder up to the cockpit where a green light was blinking on the controls.

  As a hired killer, Magnus received contracts from a variety of sources. Open contracts, broadcast in code across the Imperium, were available to anyone, but jobs directed specifically to him usually arose from word of mouth. His reputation among criminal syndicates and governments alike was well known.

  When Magnus began reading the new message, he quickly realized the scope of what was being asked. This was a high-value target but, on the other hand, the payout was impressive. Half of the money was already sitting in a numbered bank account with an access code attached to the contract. The rest would be available after the job was done.<
br />
  Still, something was off.

  Magnus, snug in the pilot’s chair, steepled his fingers and contemplated the text. There was no sender’s name, but that wasn’t unusual. All he really needed was the name of the mark, and the message was kind enough to include where the target would be and when. However, this hit would send ripples across the Imperium. Magnus wasn’t sure he wanted to get swept up in the repercussions.

  Magnus considered for a long time before coming to a decision. When he did, he tapped in a reply and sent it off into the void where it would head invariably back to the anonymous sender:

  CONTRACT ACCEPTED.

  MAGNUS BLACK.

  Chapter Ten

  Silandra Oakhollow gathered herbs in the forest near her village. Her brilliant green eyes shined above angular cheek bones and a light brown complexion like freshly cut timber. As she knelt among the wild flowers and tall grasses, her long, hazel-colored hair peeked from beneath the hood of her cloak. Straightening, she pulled the hood back, revealing pointed ears.

  A Sylvan, Silandra’s people were related to the Dahl but, while her distant cousins were interested in collecting all forms of knowledge, the Sylva focused their studies on nature and the wild things inhabiting it. Even their psionics centered on woodland animals, communicating with the creatures who knew the forest best.

  Silandra packed a handful of herbs into a pouch hanging from her belt. The woods, dim even when the sun was high, were growing darker now that dusk had arrived. Silandra turned to head home when the noise of fighting and a tumbling crash caught her ears. Remaining unseen, she crept toward the sounds.

  In a clearing flanked by a rocky hillside, Katak warriors had cornered a man swinging a sword. The Katak were froglings, primitive by nature, with slimy blue skin and wielding wooden spears with flint tips. The man wore some sort of modern armor, heavily engraved, with a helmet covering his face. Silandra realized he was protecting something partially buried from a rock fall. As she drew closer, she saw it was a robot, lying face down, with stones covering much of his body.

  The knight slashed at the Katak who were nearly a foot smaller, but outnumbered him five to one. They seemed content to surround him, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

  Concentrating, Silandra reached out with her mind into the thoughts of the froglings, casting images of giant snakes slithering out of the shadows. The Katak made loud, chirping noises, glancing at each other until one of them threw down his spear and ran deeper into the woods. The others quickly followed, leaving the man with his sword hanging by his side.

  Silandra stepped into the clearing.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Seeing her, the man in armor sheathed his weapon and removed his helmet. Expecting a human, Silandra was surprised that he was something else entirely. His skin was a dark, olive green with bony protrusions running along the line of his chin. She had no idea what he was, but he bowed lavishly in her direction.

  “Greetings,” he said. “May I assume you are somehow responsible for these creatures’ hasty retreat?”

  Silandra laughed at his formal speech.

  “Why, yes you may!” she said, grinning.

  “I am Sir Golan of the Cruxians,” he said. “Who might you be?”

  “Silandra Oakhollow of the... uh, town of Gowyn I guess...”

  “Well met! May I inquire if this town of Gowyn is nearby?”

  “It’s about a half hour walk.”

  “Good,” Sir Golan said. “I’m afraid my squire is damaged and in need of repair.”

  He motioned toward the robot still buried beneath the loose rocks.

  “Never mind me,” the robot said, his voice muffled by the dirt.

  Silandra and Golan spent a few minutes freeing the robot. His right arm was mangled and parts of his chest were dented in several places.

  “Thank you so much!” the robot said, trying to dust himself off with his good arm.

  “Do you have a name?” Silandra asked.

  “Squire,” he said. “My name and function, you might say...”

  “Well, let’s get you to Gowyn,” she said. “As luck would have it, I believe there’s a tinker in town.”

  Gowyn was a village in the trees, fifty feet up in the forest canopy. Circular platforms were centered around thick tree trunks with rope bridges spanning the gaps between them. On one of the platforms, hanging above the door of a rustic building, a wooden sign read Bragor’s Tavern. Inside, the lights flickered, the patrons yelling each time they did. With each shout, a single but higher pitched voice, no less emphatic, demanded they all “shut up!” That voice belonged to a Gnomi named Mel Freck.

  In the backroom of Bragor’s Tavern, just past the kitchen, Mel was working on the power generator. Only three feet tall, with pointed ears and light pink hair, she could fix all things electronic or mechanical. Focusing her sonic spanner on the generator controls, she heard another chorus of shouts as the light bulb above her turned on and off again.

  “Stop your bitching!” Mel yelled over her shoulder, then, in a quieter voice directed at the control panel, “Crap on a cracker...”

  Bragor, a Sylvan with raven hair and sharp, pointed features, stuck his head into the room.

  “How’s it going in here, eh?” he said.

  “Fine,” Mel said flatly.

  “The folks at the bar are trying to watch the gravbike races but the power keeps turning off the TV...”

  “This generator’s a mess,” Mel went on. “You’re lucky to have any power at all!”

  “Well, can’t you wait until the races are over?”

  “I didn’t come all the way from Technotown to sit around.”

  “I’ll pay for your drinks,” Bragor offered.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” she replied, slamming her spanner on top of the control panel.

  The two returned to the main room where a teak bar was crowded with Sylans watching a video monitor hanging from the ceiling. Mel noted the brightly colored gravbikes streaking across the screen.

  She climbed aboard one of the stools and Bragor brought her a sudsy mug of beer as an advertisement filled the monitor:

  DRINK GENUINE GORDIAN FUNGUS BEER!

  NOW WITH MORE SMOOTH FUNGUS FLAVOR!

  Sisa Oakhollow sat in her room carving a figure out of yew wood. She hadn’t decided what the figure would look like, but in her mind, it was a young Sylvan girl like herself. Like her mother, Sisa had bright, green eyes and high, sharp cheek bones, but both her hair and complexion were darker like dull copper.

  Sisa heard a noise from the front of the house. Setting her carving aside, she rose and ran to the door, expecting to see just her mother coming home. Instead, she found her in the front room with two strangers, one of them a robot.

  “Don’t just stand there, Sisa,” her mother said. “Help me with Mr. Squire.”

  “Oh, just Squire is sufficient,” the robot said.

  Sisa grabbed one of his arms, putting some of the weight onto her shoulders. The other stranger carried the other arm, burdened as he was with his helmet and armor. She noticed he also had a sword slung on his belt.

  The two of them lugged Squire to a chair made from gnarled beech and leather.

  “I’m most grateful to you,” the stranger said in a formal tone.

  Sisa snickered, not sure why he was talking that way.

  “No problem,” she said, smiling.

  “This is Sir Golan,” Silandra said. “He’s some kind of knight, apparently.”

  “Really?” Sisa asked.

  “At your service,” Golan replied with a low bow.

  Sisa gave a sideways glance to her mother who simply shrugged.

  “Perhaps Sir Golan is thirsty,” Silandra suggested.

  Sisa nodded and ran to the kitchen to pour some water into a clay mug. When she returned, Golan had also taken a seat, his helmet and sword placed close by his side. Sisa noticed his armor was carved in the same intricate design as the robot’s chest a
nd head.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Katak,” Silandra said.

  “These frogmen,” Golan began, “do they cause trouble often?”

  “No!” Silandra said. “Not usually, but lately they’ve been acting strangely.”

  “How so?”

  “Something has them riled up,” Sisa’s mother replied. “I’ve no idea why.”

  Squire raised the finger of his good hand. “Might I inquire about my repairs?”

  “Of course!” Silanda said, slapping her forehead. “Sisa, go to your father’s and see if that Gnomi tinker is still there.”

  “It’s getting late...” Sisa replied doubtfully.

  “Just go!”

  The young Sylvan rolled her eyes and, grabbing a wool cloak, hurried out the door.

  Mel was downing her third beer when a young Sylvan came charging through the door into Bragor’s Tavern. While smaller than the adults, she was still a few inches taller than Mel herself. This might have bothered her after the first beer, but now Mel’s view of the universe had grown more agreeable. She was even enjoying the gravbike races, although only for the crashes.

  The girl ran to Bragor behind the bar and pointed in Mel’s direction. After a short conversation, the two of them approached the tinker.

  “Excuse me,” Bragor said, “my daughter Sisa was wondering if you could fix a robot at her mother’s house.”

  “But I haven’t finished fixing your generator...” Mel started.

  “It can wait until morning,” he replied.

  “What kind of robot?” she asked. “It’s not gravitronic, is it?”

  “I don’t know what that is,” Sisa said.

  “Nothing but trouble...” Mel replied.

  Sisa took Mel’s arm and helped her off the stool. Unsteady at first, the Gnomi found her legs and even took a step without the girl.

  “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” Bragor said.

  “I’m fine!” Mel said and fell face first on the floor.

  When Mel regained her senses, she was laying on a couch made from beech wood and straps of leather. His back to her, a robot sat in a nearby chair while a woman appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray full of coffee mugs.

  “Where’s the little girl?” Mel asked.