Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  “I sent her to bed,” the woman replied. “I’m Silandra, by the way.”

  “You’re Bragor’s wife?”

  “Oh, we’re not married.”

  Feeling suddenly awkward, Mel pointed a thumb at the robot. “Is this the patient?”

  The robot rotated his head completely around until it faced her.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” he said.

  “Don’t do that!” Mel shouted.

  “Fair enough!” the robot said cheerfully, turning his head back to the front.

  “His name is Squire,” Silandra said. “He’s pretty beaten up.”

  “Did Sisa bring my tools?”

  “Yes, by the door.”

  Mel hopped off the couch and, a little wobbly, retrieved the satchel beside the front door. She dropped it again at the robot’s chair and pulled her sonic spanner from the bag.

  “This is going to hurt,” she said.

  “Really?” Squire asked.

  “No, you’re a robot.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite right.”

  “Definitely not gravitronic,” Mel muttered quietly under her breath.

  Into the night, Mel tinkered with Squire’s frame, repairing the damage and tuning his systems. She quickly realized that his software was woefully outdated.

  After a few hours, she straightened her aching back and took a long stretch, her arms reaching for the ceiling. While a software update was downloading from the local nodesphere into Squire’s brain, Mel decided to stretch her legs by taking a quick tour of the house.

  Before going to bed, Silandra had dimmed the lights in most of the rooms, but Mel was able to find her way. The Gnomi had excellent night vision, their ancestors having lived mostly underground.

  Down the hall from the living room and kitchen, Mel softly cracked open the door to Silandra’s bedroom. She was sleeping soundly in a single bed.

  Bragor must spend his nights somewhere else, Mel thought.

  Sisa’s room, next door to her mother’s, was smaller but decorated more extravagantly with paintings and carvings. Mel wondered if the girl had made them all herself.

  When Mel reached the final door in the hallway, she noticed a light coming from underneath. Hearing nothing, she tried the doorknob and walked in on a strange man with dark green skin. Bare from the waist up, he sat with his legs crossed and holding a sword in his outstretched hands. Before him, a pair of burning incense sticks were displayed on a small, wooden altar. Mel was about to apologize when she realized the man was ignoring her, unaware she was there. She closed the door again and returned to the living room.

  Mel checked that the download was complete and reinitialized the robot’s operating system. When Squire came back online, Mel was eager to ask him a few questions.

  “Who the hell is that green guy?” she said.

  “Sir Golan?” the robot replied.

  “I guess.”

  “He’s my master.”

  “I just saw him,” Mel went on. “It’s like he was in a trance.”

  Taking a moment to process, Squire replied, “Oh, I suspect he was meditating. Sir Golan is quite dedicated to thinking deeply about things.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Well, he’s Cruxian, you know. They live a life of introspection, reflecting on their actions, both past and present.”

  “I’ve never heard of them,” Mel confessed.

  “Few have, actually,” Squire said. “I suppose because they’re nearly extinct.”

  “Are they dying out or something?”

  “By their own hand, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Many centuries ago,” the robot explained, “the Cruxians were a wealthy, enterprising race. As Sir Golan would tell you himself, they wanted everything and believed they could achieve anything they set their minds to. However, due to their greed and hubris, there was a great war and most of their race, nearly all life on their planet really, was destroyed. Those who survived dedicated their lives to redeeming themselves and, metaphorically, their species. They scattered to the four winds, looking for ways to reclaim their honor.”

  “Like how?” Mel asked.

  “Wandering from place to place, mostly,” Squire replied, “helping people when they could...”

  Mel closed the lid on Squire’s chest which was filled with the repairs she had spent the last several hours completing.

  “How’s that working out for you?” she said.

  When Golan was a boy, he remembered training with his master in a temple overlooking the Cruxian capital. When the sun set, the glow of the horizon would mix with the lights of the city, the colors like paint spilled across a canvas. When the bombs began falling, the only color Golan remembered was the orange of fire and the blackness as the lights went out.

  Deep in meditation, he almost didn’t hear the crash as Katak warriors broke through the window and spilled into the bedroom. Once aware of what was happening, the Cruxian knight was instantly on his feet, his sword at the ready. Two of the froglings held spears while the other two carried spiked clubs. The room was small, giving Golan the advantage by preventing the Katak from attacking all at once.

  Golan remembered the day his master gave him his sword. It was a single-edge blade with writing down the side, a prayer of forgiveness and fortitude. As a young man, he didn’t fully understand why a weapon of death would be engraved with a prayer. His master called the sword Rippana.

  Golan sliced through the spear, breaking it in half, before whirling around to cut the Katak warrior across the chest. The second frogling died when Rippana carved him down the center of his head, between two bulging eyes. The third warrior raised a spiked club high above until both his arms were separated from his body. The final opponent met his end exiting through the window, his last view of the world a glistening blade of steel protruding from his chest, the letters of an unknown language etched across the metal.

  Before the bombs fell on the Cruxian capital, Golan’s master finally explained the reason for the prayer on the young knight’s sword. During battle, an honorable knight must remain strong, but never feel hate or malice toward those he fights. Most of all, he must absolve them of their sin so that they can travel to the next life cleansed of whatever led them to leave this one.

  In the hallway, Golan rushed toward the sound of fighting. Squire and a tiny woman were struggling with a pair of Katak. The female was kicking a frogling in the leg while Squire was using a chair to hold off the other. Golan made quick work of both enemies, cutting them down with quick motions, severing their spines. Golan, Squire, and the small woman stared blankly at each other until a scream drove them back down the hallway. Silandra stood at the door to her daughter’s room. The knight thrust himself past her, but the room was empty except for broken furniture and a shattered window.

  “They’ve taken Sisa!” Silandra shouted.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Jewel of Amann cruised slowly across a backdrop of stars. A starliner that had seen better days, the Jewel was small compared to the interstellar liners monopolizing most of the leisure travel industry. Her route never left the same system, flying from one planet to another just below the speed of light. Mostly, her bookings were people on pensions who couldn’t afford the more expensive cruises between systems. In that respect, the Jewel wasn’t a starliner at all, but the brochures didn’t mention that.

  In what barely passed as a first-class cabin, Sylvia Flax lay on the bed reviewing notes on her datapad. The bedsheets were still made, but she had pulled the pillow out and propped it behind her back against the headboard. The cabin displayed a rustic charm that the newer liners ignored for the sake of expediency. The furniture was mostly real wood with a desk in one corner and a bureau with a mirror in the other. The bathroom wasn’t much to brag about, but Flax had seen worse in her time as a field reporter. Those days, like the Jewel’s heyday, were long gone, but it felt nice to be out on assignment again. />
  Flax should have known something was up when the editor-in-chief had called her into his office and closed the door. A bald man with a bad stomach, the Chief began speaking before Flax could even sit down.

  “What do you know about IDEA Furniture?” he growled, holding the center of his chest.

  “You should do something about that heartburn,” Flax said. “They have pills now. It’s called medical science...”

  “Whatever!” he replied. “I’ve got a guy who says IDEA is putting grunka meat in their meatballs.”

  “Is that bad?”

  “I don’t know, do you want grunka meat in your meatballs?”

  “That depends,” Flax said, “I don’t know what a grunka is...”

  “Well, it ain’t good, I can tell you that. It causes intestinal upset and ballistic diarrhea.”

  “Ballistic diarrhea? That’s not real.”

  “It’s a thing. I’m telling you!”

  “Okay, so this guy has proof?” Flax asked.

  “Yeah, and he wants the famous Sylvia Flax to get the scoop.”

  “So, what’s the problem? I’ll interview him down here at the station.”

  “The problem,” the Chief said, “is that he thinks IDEA is trying to kill him and he won’t do an interview unless you meet him.”

  “Where?”

  “On a ship.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Jewel of Amann.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “I got you a ticket,” the Chief said. “It’s probably on your datapad already.”

  “I’m going by myself?” Flax asked.

  “He’s a harmless little guy. You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Walter Ruggles.”

  Walter Ruggles’ stateroom was a box, ten feet by ten feet, with a communal bathroom down the hall. While luxurious compared to third-class standards, this second-class cabin was only slightly larger than a typical prison cell.

  At least I have a window, he thought.

  Ruggles was in his late fifties, bald on top with dark hair around the sides and just a hint of a mustache. His suit, which had been fashionable around the same time the Jewel of Amann was newly christened, was now threadbare in places and stained in others. He also wore a checkered bow tie and a pair of glasses with dark, round frames.

  Although he knew Sylvia Flax was coming to his cabin, Ruggles still jumped when she knocked. Having only seen her on holovids, he was equally unprepared for her beauty in person. The sconce in the corridor lit her hair like an eruption of brilliant blue as her eyes glared back at him with irritation.

  “Are you Ruggles?” she asked.

  “Shush!” he replied, grabbing Flax by the wrist and pulling her into his room. He stuck his head into the hallway, peering both left and right.

  When the cabin door slid shut, the reporter was standing with hands on her hips, her head cocked to one side.

  “I’m sorry,” Ruggles said. “I can’t be too careful.”

  “Why?”

  “IDEA agents are everywhere...”

  “The furniture store?” she replied doubtfully.

  Ruggles smiled, realizing he knew far more about the topic than she did.

  “Furniture is just the tip of the iceberg,” he explained. “They sell textiles, rugs, even small appliances.”

  “I’ve seen the commercials—”

  “But it’s the food,” Ruggles interrupted. “That’s the real scandal.”

  Flax sighed and glanced around the room. She took the only chair and sat in it, crossing her legs as she pulled a datapad from her bag.

  “Yeah, my editor seems to think this could be big,” she said.

  “Oh, it is!” Ruggles replied. “It could ruin the company. That’s why they’d do anything to keep me quiet.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Pulling a briefcase out from under his single bunk, Ruggles opened it and removed a stack of disheveled printouts. He scanned the pages for a moment before holding them out like playing cards during a magic trick.

  “You don’t have soft copies?” Flax wondered.

  “No, those could be hacked.”

  “Right,” she said. “So, maybe you could just tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s the meat,” Ruggles said. “They’re putting strange meats in their meatballs.”

  “It’s a big galaxy, Mr. Ruggles,” Flax said. “There’s lots of strange meats out there. That doesn’t make it a crime to put it in food.”

  “You don’t understand! IDEA prides itself on their meatballs. It’s the flagship of their restaurant. They sell billions of pounds of them but nobody knows what’s actually in it!”

  “So, basically you’re saying it’s a public health issue?”

  “Well... yes!”

  “Okay, fine,” Flax said. “I can work with that...”

  The captain of the Jewel of Amann was an older man, in his sixties and close to retirement. In the twilight of his career, he took command of the Jewel as a relaxing way to live out his final years before calling it quits. Sitting in the captain’s chair and puffing on a pipe, he watched the view screen at the front of the bridge with mild interest, his thoughts drifting in and out of memories until his first mate chirped about something on the sensors.

  “Several contacts on an intercept course, Skipper,” the second-in-command said.

  The captain inhaled abruptly, coughing on the smoke.

  “What?” he wheezed.

  “Sir, there’s multiple ships inbound,” the first mate replied.

  “What for?”

  “Uh... I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, scan the blasted things!”

  The captain chewed on the stem of his pipe, unsure why anyone would bother with an old tub like the Jewel.

  “Their transponders are off,” the first mate said after completing his scan, “but the craft appear to be Celadon.”

  The Celadon Corsairs were rivals of the Pirate Clans, and even more feared. They were the beginning of a supply chain of slaves leading all the way back to the Magna home world across the border. Celadons kept whatever cargo they could plunder, but any captives were sold like chattel in the infamous slave pens of Oras Dracilor.

  The captain shuddered at the thought of it.

  “Broadcast a distress call,” he said, “and prepare to repel boarders...”

  Like most Celadons, Golub was four feet tall with a disproportionately large head. Both his ears and nose were long and pointed and his skin, even in the murky light of the assault ship, was a pale green. Strapped securely into his seat, he watched as the rest of the corsair vessels descended on the Jewel of Amann like a pack of wolves on a lumbering beast.

  Golub loved being a pirate. He especially enjoyed meeting new people and hearing them scream. Of course, he didn’t know what they were saying since he mostly just understood Celadonese. They didn’t teach the human language in schools on Celadon. Golub knew Ougluk and enough Magna to get by and even a few words of Sarkan, but tried to avoid them as best he could. He didn’t trust the Sarkan, although honestly, they weren’t as bad as humans. That’s probably why Golub liked hearing humans scream.

  The humans, who had no respect for anyone except themselves, called Golub and his people goblins because the Celadons looked like creatures from their folklore. Truth be told, the Celadons didn’t respect other races, especially those taller than themselves. Golub’s people didn’t like smaller races either, except to bully them whenever possible.

  The assault ships disabled the engines of the Jewel and came alongside in preparation to board. Golub felt a shudder as explosives blew the airlock open. He and the other corsairs readied their laser rifles before storming into the corridors of the Jewel.

  The rest was the usual routine. Teams split up and neutralized any feeble resistance the ship could muster. This was another aspect Golub enjoyed. As a rule, they wanted to keep as many passengers alive as po
ssible so they could be sold later on, but anyone who actively opposed them could be cut down as brutally as necessary.

  Outside the bridge, Golub stopped to examine a human body, one of the crew apparently. He was older than the others and heavy around the middle. He wore an officer’s uniform, now torn and partially charred. Beside him, next to his outstretched hand, a pipe lay on the floor. Golub bent and took the pipe, inspecting it a moment before tucking it inside a pocket. Most loot was shared among the pirates, but not everything. Golub liked taking a few trinkets just for himself.

  A few decks down, among the passenger cabins, he and his team began searching the rooms. Expensive items were thrown into the hall to be collected later. When encountered, travelers were especially fun. They yelled incomprehensibly at Golub, which he took as an excuse to strike them with the stock of his rifle.

  Opening another cabin door, he saw a man in the room with glasses and a ridiculous mustache. Golub hesitated, remembering his orders, which gave a blue-haired woman, also in the cabin, the opportunity to punch him across the nose, knocking the Celadon flat on his back.

  Golub didn’t always love being a pirate.

  In the officers’ lounge of the HIMS Baron Lancaster, Commander Robert Maycare sat comfortably while reading the recent gravbike racing scores on his datapad. His uncle, Lord Devlin Maycare, had won recently on Regalis. The article showed an image of him pouring champagne over a woman’s head with mousy brown hair. She did not look amused.

  Always the ladies’ man, the commander thought.

  Someone cleared her throat and Maycare looked up to see the Chief Operations Officer, Lieutenant Kinnari, standing over him. She was the only Dahl on board, with pointed ears mostly hidden beneath jet-black hair.

  “Hello, Lieutenant,” Maycare said.

  “Reading anything interesting, sir?” she asked, taking the other chair at the table.

  “Not really,” he replied. “Just some of my uncle’s exploits...”

  “He’s quite a sportsman, I’m told.”

  “The Maycares come from a long line of adrenaline junkies. I guess we just find different ways to get our fix.”

  Kinnari smiled, soaking in what Maycare was saying. The commander always got the feeling Dahls lived vicariously through human antics, as if they could never have any of their own.