The Well of Time:
Book Five of the Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind
By
Robert I. Katz
The Well of Time:
Book Five of The Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind
Copyright © 2019 by Robert I. Katz
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Cover design by Steven A. Katz
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Information About the Author
Chapter 1
“What an incredible spectacle,” Andreas Richter said. He stared down at the sands of the arena with a gleeful expression, entranced by the bloody show. “This display, and our reactions to it, says something so very basic about humankind. Only when we stare death in the face do we understand it. Humanity is a race of predators, the most successful predators the stars have ever seen. Humanity has conquered, and then conquered again and again, first our own little world, then half the galaxy.”
Michael Glover gave Richter a brooding look. Michael sincerely doubted that this fat little cockroach had ever ‘stared death in the face,’ not his own death, at least. Michael had. He had faced death more times than he could count or cared to remember. Facing death, in Michael’s opinion, was something to be avoided if possible, and if not possible, to be dealt with decisively and with overwhelming force.
Richter might be right about the predatory nature of mankind, but the idea that human beings were the most successful predators that ‘the stars had ever seen’ was a flight of fantasy combined with a large dose of wishful thinking. Humanity had not conquered half the galaxy. They had explored and settled less than half of one spiral arm, and nearly gone extinct. More than once. The Swarm had been tough, the Hirrill even tougher, and God knew what still awaited them beyond the edges of deep space.
Michael could appreciate a little gladiatorial display, a sport that paid homage to humanity’s martial past and honored traditions. But this? Actual death? For what? Michael smiled at Andreas Richter and idly considered ‘accidentally’ throwing him over the edge and down into the arena. See how he liked it when death really did stare him in the face.
But no. Andreas Richter was an Imperial Ambassador and Michael Glover was pretending to be a merchant. Play the role, he told himself, and see where it all took them.
Still, Michael hated this place.
Sirianus-2 was first settled over three thousand years ago. At the time of its discovery, the Empire had been at war with an alien race that humanity called the Swarm, otherwise the planet would have been surveyed and then left alone. Sirianus-2 was not the most attractive bit of real estate. Even after extensive terraforming, it was barely habitable, but the Swarm were advancing, and humanity could not afford to ignore territory that might allow a foothold into human occupied space. If they did not settle Sirianus-2, then the enemy assuredly would.
For one thing, the planet was too small to retain an atmosphere for more than a few thousand years, but if the Chancellor of the Imperial Treasury was willing to pay and the Imperial Military Services wanted it done, then they could always renew an atmosphere. A larger issue was Sirianus’ unstable energy emissions. Sunspot activity cycled on and off every twenty-three years. Every twenty-three years, therefore, the little world grew hot. Very hot. And then, twenty-three years later, the planetary temperature receded to the merely uncomfortable.
Again, nothing that experienced exo-biologists couldn’t handle. They seeded the planet with vermiliaforms, small, almost microscopic flora that floated high in the atmosphere. Every twenty-three years, the vermiliaforms bloomed, hazing the sky, absorbing the sun’s increasing energy and converting it into world spanning, gossamer thin sheets of starchy fiber, similar to cellulose, that drifted down to the ground and could then be burned for fuel, woven into cloth, or, treated with the proper enzymes, turned into edible sugars.
Hot, dry, dusty but livable, Sirianus-2 had become the first line of defense against the enemy. A success. The Swarm was long since defeated, and upon confinement to their own worlds, had committed mass, racial suicide. This had bothered the Imperial authorities not in the slightest. It was a big galaxy and if a marauding, genocidal species could not get by without indulging its primal need to subdue and then eat its neighbors, then nobody else would miss them.
The First Empire, too, was long gone, alas, having dissolved into civil war and socio-economic collapse, but Sirianus-2, amazingly, had survived, one independent world among two thousand others, all going its own, bizarre way…though the air was beginning to get a bit thin. The local authorities had petitioned the Second Empire to do something about that and negotiations regarding the price were ongoing. Sirianus-2 didn’t have much to offer but in the spirit of common humanity, the Empire would probably, in the end, fix their little problem
And so here they were, Michael Glover and his intrepid companions, sitting in a covered booth in a stadium on the edge of a desert, watching gladiators fight giant lizards, huge mutated spideroids and each other.
Andreas Richter had been eager to meet with Michael and his people, ostensibly merchantmen looking to sell their cargo of spices and exotic silks from far off worlds, but aside from a desire to socialize with his putative countrymen, the head of the small Imperial embassy on Sirianus-2 appeared to have gone entirely native.
Michael sighed. Frankie, sitting next to him, frowned as one of the lizards closed its teeth on the left arm of a gladiator. The lizard’s jaws crunched through the bone, tore the arm away and angled its head upward. The arm slid down its throat, fingers seeming to wave at the crowd as it vanished. The gladiator screamed but stayed on his and feet stuck his sword through the lizard’s eye, into its tiny brain. The lizard dropped to the sand, thrashing. The gladiator swayed, blinking, the stump where his arm used to be spurting blood, then he stumbled toward one of the small gates, where the medical personnel propelled him down onto a stretcher and carried him away.
“I hope he has insurance,” Michael said. “New limbs can’t be cheap.”
“No worries,” Richter said. “It’s all covered by the standard contract. He’ll be out of action for a month or so while the arm regenerates but he’ll get a severe-injury bonus, so he won’t be hurting financially.”
On the other side of Frankie, Curly, Rosanna, Matthew and Marissa watched the action on the sand, their faces nearly expressionless, though occasionally, one of them would allow a small grimace to escape. Gloriosa, Richard Norlin, Henrik Anson and the others had stayed behind on the ship.
It was brutal. It was disgusting but it wasn’t slavery, or so the local authorities had assured them. Nobody and nothing had coerced these men, except for their circumstances. Admittedly, those circumstances were regrettable and unf
ortunate, but there were few opportunities to get ahead on Sirianus. Volunteering for the arena was one of those few.
You can’t save everybody, Michael thought.
Near them, in the stands, a small group of men sat watching the action. They also watched Michael and his people. Michael, watching them back, noted that they all carried weapons and were all young and in good shape.
About time, Michael thought.
Richter had noticed them, as well. Interesting. Richter’s eyes had flicked toward the little group more than once.
Down below, two of the lizards, apparently accustomed to working in packs, had cornered a gladiator. The gladiator’s sword moved in complex patterns, weaving in and out, flicking toward one lizard, then the other. The gladiator fought with swift economy. Surrounded by two animals that were both larger than himself and armed with long claws and sharp teeth, he seemed totally in control of the situation.
A lizard struck, long snake like neck uncoiling, teeth snapping as it darted forward. The gladiator slid to the side. His sword came down on the lizard’s neck and its head fell to the sand. The gladiator turned and charged the second beast.
Evidently, the lizards had small brains with a pre-programmed set of responses. They weren’t good at dealing with the unexpected. Small, tasty morsels were supposed to run, not charge. The lizard stood still, blinking and confused, while the gladiator thrust his sword into its abdomen and cut a gash from the umbilicus to the sternum. A pile of guts fell out onto the sand.
The lizard emitted a croak, then a wail, and then fell, thrashed for a few seconds and stopped moving.
“He’s good,” Michael said.
“Tobias Rondell,” Richter said. “He’s been rated number one for three years in a row.”
“Three years,” Curly muttered.
“Surprising he’s not dead,” Matthew Oliver said.
“At this point, he doesn’t need the money,” Richter said. “He’s doing it for pride.”
“That’s too bad,” Michael said. “Sooner or later, his pride will get him killed.”
It wasn’t pride. It was addiction. Michael had seen it before, soldiers who fought so much and for so long that life without combat turned dull and boring. They needed the thrill of danger just to feel alive. Such men were useful in a fight but a constant menace to themselves and everyone around them.
A spideroid charged. Tobias Rondell cut it to pieces, dodged a second, not before its pincers bit a bloody chunk out of his leg, then sheered it in half and suddenly, the fighting was over. All the animals and three gladiators were dead on the sand. Tobias Rondell, two other tall, well-built men and one woman, a red-haired amazon, were the last ones standing. They saluted the crowd with their swords and marched out of the arena.
Richter blinked his eyes and drew a deep breath. “Well, that was exhilarating.”
“Exhilarating,” Rosanna said. She looked at Richter and gave him a thin smile. Richter returned the smile, not realizing that Rosanna was thinking about crushing his skull. Curly patted Rosanna’s hand. She frowned.
“We’ve had an exciting and entertaining afternoon,” Curly said. “We’ve enjoyed it very much. We should thank our host for showing us such a good time and for being so considerate.”
Curly, ever the diplomat. Michael almost laughed.
Rosanna cleared her throat. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, we should.”
She didn’t, however, though Richter, assuming that she just had, continued to smile.
“We should be going,” Michael said. “We’re meeting with the merchant guild in the morning.”
“Of course,” Richter said. “Allow me to escort you to your vehicle.”
Richter’s eyes flicked to the side, where his contingent of seven muscular marines stood around the stands. They waited for a few minutes, until the crowd thinned, then walked down the stairs and exited the stadium into a covered parking garage. Michael subvocalized a command. Thirty seconds later, their limousine drove up and raised the doors.
“Enjoy the rest of your stay,” Richter said.
“Thank you,” Michael said. “We will.”
They piled inside and the vehicle took off, exiting the garage onto a dusty street. Within minutes, they passed the last ramshackle collection of huts. The overhead speaker crackled to life. “You are being followed,” Romulus’ voice said.
Matthew Oliver rolled his eyes. Curly gave a little snort. “What a surprise,” Rosanna murmured.
“I counted six in the stadium,” Marissa said.
Michael nodded. “There are probably more. I would expect that they’ve arranged an ambush somewhere.”
Above their heads, twenty small drones armed with tiny missiles drifted downward. Three of them latched onto the roof of the car creeping up behind them.
“You are both correct. There are, as Ms. Oliver has noted, six men in the vehicle,” Romulus said. “They have arranged for a tree to fall across the access road leading to the spaceport. They have four more men waiting ahead.”
“Why?” Michael said. “What do they want?”
“They have accepted your cover identification as an itinerant merchant crew. They have noted that all of you are well-built and apparently young. There are thirty-seven gladiatorial arenas on Sirianus-2. They plan on confiscating the ship and selling you somewhere far from the capital.” Romulus voice fell silent for a moment. “Ambassador Richter’s cut is ten percent of the total.”
The ship that Romulus referred to was the Shiloh. As large as the average merchant vessel, it was one of four First Empire corvettes that Gehenna carried in her transport bay.
So much for the government’s assurances that the gladiators were all happy volunteers.
“Disappointing,” Matthew said. “I would have hoped for better behavior from an Imperial representative.”
Michael shrugged. “They don’t appoint the cream of the crop to crappy little outposts like Sirianus.”
“I, for one,” Rosanna said, “am looking forward to cutting that little shit down to size.”
“Detain the four up ahead,” Michael said. “Let’s spring this trap.”
“Agreed,” Romulus said.
The road by now was almost deserted. Little wonder, since the Shiloh was the only foreign ship on the tarmac. The car following was now thirty meters behind. Two of the drones fired tiny missiles, which slammed into the car’s engine housing. Small bursts of flame burst upward and the vehicle ground to a halt. All six men piled out, clutching guns in their fists.
“Stop,” Michael said. The limousine stopped. A hologram of the scene outside displayed in the air. All twenty drones surrounded the six men. Romulus’ voice issued from one of the drones. “Drop your weapons.”
“Fuck that.” One of the men raised his weapon and fired at a drone. The drone flicked to the side, then all twenty swooped in. The air snapped as electrical charges shot out. All six men dropped, convulsing.
“Let’s see what they have to say,” Michael said.
Chapter 2
The citizens of Sirianus-2 knew there were other intelligent beings, both human and alien, in the far-off Universe. Ships landed, now and then, bringing merchandise to trade and ship’s crews to wander through their principal city. The Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind had first contacted Sirianus nearly thirty years before, and the small, barely habitable world had accepted the imperial mission now headed by Andreas Richter.
None of them had ever seen a ship like Gehenna, and none were inclined to resist while the ship’s 5000-meter bulk hovered over their capital, blanking out the sun.
Andreas Richter looked up from his desk as Michael, Henrik Anson and ten imperial marines, all dressed in armor, stalked into his office. He stared at them. “Who are you?” he finally said. “What is the meaning of this?”
“The meaning, your former excellency,” Anson said, “is that your henchmen have talked.”
They waited a few seconds for a response. Richter said nothing. Wise
, Michael thought, not to dig his hole any deeper.
“Nothing to say?” Michael goaded. “Nothing?” He smiled. “We know your circumstances. Your family, many generations ago, was wealthy. Your ancestors, a few of them, were minor nobility. You, however, went to school on a scholarship. You’ve worked hard. You’ve struggled, yet your struggles haven’t reaped the rewards you feel you’ve earned. You like to tell yourself you deserve better. Believe me, we’ve heard it all before. There’s always an excuse.” He shrugged.
Richter’s face was white. “Who are you?” he said again.
“At the moment,” Michael said, “we are agents of the Intelligence Directorate of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind.”
Richter grimaced. He sat back in his seat and cleared his throat. “This world is entirely unimportant,” he said, his voice bitter. “Why would you come here?”
A good question. The war with the Imperium was over. It had lasted for nearly two years but had required the destruction of more than half the Imperium’s combined fleet before the Autarch, finally admitting that his forces had no chance at victory, surrendered.
Gehenna saw little real combat, since the great ship’s presence was usually enough to quell any opposition. A few enemy vessels did try to fight. They were obliterated.
The Autarch and his family swore allegiance to the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind and were reduced in rank but allowed to maintain most of their property. It was that or summary execution. The upper levels of the nobility and bureaucracy were similarly culled. The bureaucratic organizations themselves were left intact, advisors elevated from below and supervisors brought in from the Second Empire. So far as the citizenry were concerned, the transition was seamless, except that slavery was outlawed and the slaves were all freed.
The impulse toward slavery, the conviction that it is right and proper for men to own other men, could not be so easily quashed, however. Ideas and values are passed on by one generation to the next. There is nothing so difficult to change as a culture, but the Empire had plenty of experience. First, you re-write the constitution. A monarchy, it might remain, but it would be a monarchy with checks and balances, where an independent judiciary ensured that the rule of law was maintained. Second, take over the school system. When instilling ideas into children, teachers have as much influence as parents, perhaps more. You raise the next generation, and then the next, and by the time a century or two has passed, the Imperium would be a good and loyal province of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind, vaguely disapproving of their own uncivilized past, proud of their glorious present.
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