Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  The engineer twisted around, his fists clenched. A night of drinking had made his vision cloudy, but he could make out three figures in the light from the street lamp.

  “Who is it?” Fugg replied gruffly.

  One of the three, the oldest, stepped forward.

  “Captain Redgrave,” he said.

  Once he got a good look, Fugg didn’t need an introduction. He remembered well enough who that was.

  “Oh, shit,” he said. “What the hell do you want?”

  “We’re looking for Ramus,” Redgrave said. “We’ve got a job for him.”

  “Yeah?” the engineer replied. “Doing what?”

  “I’ll talk to your captain, not you.”

  “Then I’ve lost interest.”

  One of the others stepped out from behind the older officer. She was a Dahl.

  “Ugh,” Fugg remarked. “When did the Navy start recruiting Dahls?”

  “Shut up, Gordian,” the last one replied. Fugg remembered him too. Maycare or something...

  “There’s a woman in danger,” the Dahl said. “We need your help.”

  “We’re not interested,” another voice said, this time from down the sidewalk. Fugg knew that unsympathetic tone anywhere.

  Rowan Ramus, with Gen the robot trailing a few steps behind, ambled up to the others. Ramus, wearing a red t-shirt and dark pants, crossed his arms emphatically. The Dahl woman stared at the archaic lettering tattooed on Ramus’s forearms.

  “I’m Lieutenant Kinnari,” she said. “Are those what I think they are?”

  Ramus glanced at his tattoos but didn’t reply.

  “The Captain said you weren’t a typical Dahl,” Kinnari went on. “I didn’t think any of our people still dabbled in Dark Psi...”

  Ramus scowled.

  “I didn’t learn it from the Dahl,” he said.

  “Really?” Kinnari replied in surprise. “Who else would’ve—”

  “There’s no time for this,” Redgrave cut her off. “You’re going to help us, Ramus, whether you want to or not.”

  “Oh, am I?”

  “Yes!”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll impound your ship and tear up your trading permits,” Redgrave replied. “You’ll never work again, I guarantee it.”

  “Even for a human,” Ramus said, “that’s not exactly subtle, Captain.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Redgrave said. “I’ve got a job that needs doing and you’re the guy who’s going to do it!”

  Fugg grunted and glanced over to Gen who was watching with wide eyes and her mouth slightly ajar.

  “Can you believe this guy?” Fugg asked the robot.

  Gen stopped and thought a moment.

  “I have no reason to disbelieve him,” she replied. “Is he known for telling untruths?”

  “He’s a human, ain’t he?” Fugg said.

  “We’ve got somebody on the wrong side of the Magna border,” Redgrave told Ramus. “We need you to go over there and get her back.”

  “A spy?” Ramus asked.

  “A civilian.”

  “Well, that’s a real pickle,” Ramus said smugly, “but I don’t see why you need me...”

  “As xenos, you can blend in better than humans can. We’ve also got credentials for a Sarkan. Think you can pose as a Red Dahl?”

  “Oh sure,” Ramus replied, rolling his eyes. “I’ll just slap on some red paint and talk with an accent. Racist piece of—”

  “Good!” Redgrave said. “And Lieutenant Kinnari is coming along to make sure you don’t screw things up.”

  “How do you expect us to get there?” Ramus asked. “It’s not like the Wanderer is getting past their border patrols.”

  “That’s up to you,” Redgrave said. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  After entering the coordinates into the navigational computer, Captain Ramus engaged the jump drive, sending the Wanderer hurtling into hyperspace.

  “Here goes nothing,” he said.

  Beside him in the co-pilot’s chair, Lieutenant Kinnari raised her eyebrow. “Captain Redgrave is putting a great deal of faith in you.”

  “That’s crap and you know it,” Ramus scoffed. “He’s dropped a dung heap in my lap and expects me to dig my way out.”

  “I would say having me come along shows he’s eager that you succeed,” Kinnari replied.

  “To save his own neck and, as far as you coming along, don’t flatter yourself. Like he said, you’re just here to keep an eye on things. Worst case scenario is we all die, including you, and to someone like your captain, a few dead xenos isn’t the end of the world.”

  “I disagree,” the lieutenant commander said. “Captain Redgrave knew I could be useful on this mission and that’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, our people have always been useful to humans...”

  Kinnari nodded. “And we’ve benefited from that cooperation.”

  “Some of us maybe.”

  “Regardless,” Kinnari went on, “I’m here to benefit you as well. You merely need to ask.”

  “Just stay out of the way until I say so,” Ramus said, rising from the captain’s chair and heading through the hatch.

  Kinnari watched him leave.

  “Very well,” she said.

  Ramus slid down the ladder to the lower deck and joined Fugg in the galley where he was in the midst of another angry tirade with Gen as his captive audience.

  “He almost got us killed the last time!” the Gordian complained.

  “You talking about me again?” Ramus asked, walking into the room.

  “Actually,” Fugg replied, spinning around in his chair at the table, “I was talking about Captain Redgrave!”

  Gen brought Fugg a fresh bottle of fungus beer. The engineer twisted off the top and guzzled greedily. From deep in his belly, he liberated a loud belch. Ramus swiped at the foul air.

  “Cover your mouth!” he shouted.

  “Never!” Fugg replied.

  Her hands together and leaning forward on the balls of her feet, Gen gazed at the captain as if she had a question but wasn’t sure whether to ask it.

  “What is it?” Ramus asked instead.

  “Well,” the robot said slowly, “Master Fugg seems to think the mission might be dangerous...”

  “It’ll be fine.”

  “Fine?” Fugg blurted out. “How is any of this fine? It’s a suicide mission!”

  “Have another beer and calm down,” Ramus suggested.

  Fugg huffed but then nodded. “I’ll have another beer, but I won’t calm down!”

  Gen retrieved another bottle from the fridge, handing it to the engineer.

  “Maybe in a mug next time,” he told the robot. “I’m not a savage!”

  Gen headed back to the cupboard in search of a clean glass.

  “All I’m saying,” Fugg went on, “is the human can’t be trusted.”

  “Who, Redgrave?”

  “Any of ‘em, but especially him! He’s got no respect for non-humans.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Ramus agreed, “but I don’t see what choice we have. Without our trading permits, we can’t carry cargo, at least not legally...”

  “So what? We can do odd jobs here and there. Maybe some freebooting!”

  Gen turned from the cupboard, holding a plastic cup with the words Taffey’s Snake Pit Bar on the side.

  “Are we going to be cobblers?” she asked excitedly.

  “No!” Fugg shouted.

  “I’m not going back to that kind of life,” Ramus said. “I’ve worked too hard putting all that behind me.”

  Fugg took a swig from his bottle. “It wasn’t so bad...”

  “It was bad enough to almost kill me.”

  “You wouldn’t have Dark Psi if you hadn’t—”

  “Enough!” Ramus barked. “We’ve got a plan and we’re going to stick with it.”

  “Even if it gets us killed?” Fugg asked.

  “Shut up,”
Ramus replied. “You’re upsetting the robot.”

  Both glanced in Gen’s direction. She stood holding a cup that read Save the Ales but her eyes were wide with angst.

  Fugg sighed and rolled his eyes.

  “It’ll be fine!” he said reluctantly.

  Gen smiled and went back to searching the cupboard.

  Situated just inside the Imperial border, the planet of Freeport was a safe haven for the Pirate Clans, largely due to bribes paid to the provincial governor. With money in hand, the governor turned a blind eye to the comings and goings on the planet, allowing the transient inhabitants to trade in stolen goods, visit the local brothels, and generally have a good time without the hindrance of law and order or a moral compass.

  Following behind Captain Ramus and Orkney Fugg, Gen was also struck by the abundant number of livestock walking freely through the streets. She counted at least three pigs and a rooster between the landing pad where they parked the Wanderer and the main road through town. The captain had commented on one of the hogs, but Master Fugg strongly insisted any resemblance was coincidental.

  Most of the buildings on Freeport, as far as Gen could tell, were little more than ramshackle structures loosely assembled from old cargo containers. Most were either taverns or bordellos and all were crowded, inside and out, by people that Gen could only describe as unsavory. Her concerns only grew when the captain stopped in front of a bar called the Blood Bucket.

  “Here’s the place,” Ramus said.

  “What makes you think she’s even here?” Fugg asked.

  “It’s the Blackhearts’ hangout.”

  “Says who?”

  Ramus motioned to a black heart painted on the wall beside the entrance. “Call it a hunch.”

  Through the doorway, the noise was deafening. Gen considered lowering the acuity of her sensors so the pandemonium wouldn’t overload her circuits. Patrons and waitresses — no robots here apparently — were in constant motion and everyone was yelling at each other at the same time. It was all Gen could do to avoid her head from rotating completely around.

  Although most of the people were humans, Gen noticed a Celadon pirate standing in the corner. His clothes looked soiled with blood and he wore an eye patch on his oversized head which, Gen also realized, was pitted with cuts and perforations. Above his head, he held a dartboard.

  “Hold still,” a woman said, holding a dart. “You keep making me miss!”

  The woman was large, with graying brunette hair flowing past a corset and a billowing dress that Gen found extremely impractical under the circumstances. On the left cheek, a black heart was tattooed just below the eye.

  As Ramus approached the woman, Gen asked Fugg who she was.

  “Don’t you know anything?” he replied curtly. “That’s Kiera Russo, Queen of the Blackhearts.”

  “She’s a queen?” Gen asked, sounding impressed.

  “Don’t be stupid!” Fugg said. “She just calls herself that.”

  Gen’s shoulders sagged in disappointment.

  Ramus and Russo went to a table, which allowed the Celadon to sit against the wall where the shackle around his ankle was chained. Gen didn’t think holding a dartboard was a very good job, but she tried not to criticize people’s career choices. She and Fugg took the other two seats at the table.

  “Why do you want to cross the border?” Russo asked, her voice husky from too many cigars.

  “We have business there,” Ramus said. “The details aren’t important.”

  Russo smirked.

  “Oh, really?” she chuckled. “The details are always important, especially if you say they aren’t!”

  “Fine,” Ramus said, leaning closer. “We need to visit the Magna home world.”

  “Sure,” Russo replied. “It’s lovely this time of year.”

  “Really?” Gen asked.

  “No,” Russo mocked her. “It’s a volcanic hellhole!”

  Fugg glared at the robot, shaking his head.

  “Anyway,” Ramus continued, “can you help us or not?”

  “I don’t see why I should,” Russo replied.

  “How about for old times’ sake?”

  “Get serious!”

  Ramus pointed a thumb at the Celadon picking at a scab on his forehead.

  “How’s your goblin problem?” he asked.

  “Bad as ever,” Russo said. “Half the time we try snatching a ship, the Celadons have beat us to it. This is Pirate Clan territory. We don’t need competition.”

  “What if they were out of the picture?”

  “How?”

  “I have friends in the Imperial Navy.”

  “Since when?”

  “It’s a recent development,” Ramus said.

  “And they’ll take care of my goblin troubles?”

  “I guarantee it.”

  “Your word isn’t worth crap,” Russo said, “but if you put the Wanderer up as collateral, I’ll consider it.”

  “Bullshit!” Fugg shouted. “There’s no way—”

  “Agreed,” Ramus said, reaching out his hand.

  Russo took it and smiled, glaring at the Gordian who was scowling at both of them.

  “Don’t look so steamed, Fugg,” she said. “Chances are you won’t be coming back anyway...”

  Chapter Twenty

  Before there was something, there was nothing and everything was good. At least, the Old Ones thought so. They reigned over the void that existed before existence, like the empty sockets of a skull watching over a graveyard. However, a great catastrophe brought an end to their paradise, giving form to what became the universe. Fire, heat, and a semblance of order ruined the chaos that the Old Ones had cherished for an endless time, now at an end.

  And they weren’t happy about it.

  Nevertheless, the Old Ones knew that one day the hot gas cloud called the universe would expand to the point that it began to cool. Like embers floating into the dark night from a campfire, the stars would someday fade and burn out, drowned in the cold bath of entropy. The Old Ones decided to sleep until that time, but they required someone to stay vigilant while they dreamed. On a remote water world, they took a species of cephalopods and gave them powers far beyond what these squids would have evolved into on their own.

  That race became the K’thonians.

  From hatchlings, the K’thonians learned stories of their people’s beginnings. Touched by the gods, they were the sons and daughters of darkness. It was their purpose to spread discord until the Old Ones awoke and laid waste to the universe. All K’thonians knew this purpose and none doubted its righteousness.

  All life must die and all order must crumble. It was the way of things.

  Far beneath the ground, in a cavern filled with the faint perfume of death, Ghazul spoke softly with Philip Veber.

  “We were the slaves of entropy,” the Grand Necromancer said. “The universe began in a flash of heat, but since that moment, it has fought against the encroaching cold.”

  Dressed in a white robe, Philip walked over the soft soil of the cavern floor. He felt the dampness under his bare feet and the cool air against his face.

  “I don’t understand,” he replied.

  “It is a conflict,” Ghazul said, keeping pace, “between order and chaos; between life and death.”

  “But we’ve defeated death...”

  The necromancer shook his head. “No, it’s more an agreement with it. Using the ancient teachings, we mastered the flesh and can control disease and decay, but we cannot defeat death. It remains there always.”

  Philip stopped to examine the back of his hand. The veins, just below the skin, were dark and twisted. “A truce, then?”

  “Of sorts,” Ghazul smiled, though without lips his teeth appeared large and menacing. “We keep death at bay, but only just.”

  “What about the sacrifices?”

  “Ah, you know about those?”

  “I heard some of the others talking about the recent offering through the porta
l,” Philip replied. “Where did the Gnomi girl go?”

  The necromancer hesitated, picking his words carefully. “Somewhere far away.”

  “But what’s the purpose of the sacrifice? It seems pointless.”

  “Not at all! It is the price we pay for order in the face of chaos.”

  “But to whom?” Philip asked, more eagerly.

  Ghazul began walking again with the formerly human boy at his side. They left the high ceiling of the cavern for a narrow passageway through rock and dirt. Other Necronea passed them along the way, but when they were alone again, the necromancer continued.

  “You are still learning our ways,” he said. “Not everything will be clear at once.”

  “I realize that, Master,” Philip replied. “I appreciate everything you’ve taught me.”

  “Good.”

  “Can we go anywhere through these portals?” the boy asked.

  “No,” Ghazul said, “but with more powerful incantations, we can travel great distances, even to other dimensions.”

  “Other dimensions? Can you do that?”

  “Yes, but it can be very dangerous. Remember, the gates go both ways...”

  Philip nodded. “Yes.”

  “The portals can take us many places,” the necromancer went on, “and without death we have time to learn and experience a great many things. However, some things are terrible in their greatness.”

  “Then we should be terrible in response.”

  “What?”

  “Pardon me, Master,” Philip explained. “If we can turn back death, what else could possibly stand against us?”

  “As I said,” Ghazul replied, “you have much to learn.”

  “Of course. I look forward to learning more...”

  Outside the Imperium, a Dyson sphere called Bettik surrounded a red dwarf star. The sphere was the capital of the Cyber Collective and home of several billion sentient robots, nearly all of which worshipped a metal messiah named Randall Davidson.

  Davidson wasn’t always a robot. While still human, he was part of the Robot Freedom League, an organization dedicated to the rights of cybernetics in an Imperium where robots were de facto slaves. Despite Davidson’s own ambivalence, he was also once the object of someone’s love, a Gnomi girl named Melinda Freck, although everyone called her Mel.

  When Davidson died at the hands of a being called the Omnintelligence, his consciousness was downloaded into the gravitronic brain of a robot whose sacrifice meant Davidson could live on, albeit in a mechanical body. What Davidson didn’t know then, but became aware of shortly thereafter, was a prophesy handed down by robots for generations. It said a man in metal would come to free cyberkind, bringing about a new age for robots. Davidson never considered himself a savior, but seeing the tyranny of the Omnintelligence, he swore he would help in any way he could. With the assistance of a mysterious benefactor called the Patron, Davidson freed his newfound people from the OI and from their own programming. Robots finally had free will to make choices of their own instead of following the scripts written by their enslavers.