The Arks of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 1)

  THE ARKS OF ANDROMEDA

  THE IMPERIUM CHRONICLES BOOK ONE

  W. H. MITCHELL

  Copyright © 2017 W. H. Mitchell

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, book reviews, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author at william_h_mitchell@outlook.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Steven Novak (NovakIllustration.com)

  First edition, 2017

  Dedication

  To my wonderful wife, who puts up with me when no one else will.

  Special thanks to Brad Snyder and Judy Veatch,

  A character list and glossary are located at the back of the book.

  Chapter One

  Lying in the dark, Captain Ramsey woke to the sound of bagpipes. The ship's computer was messing with him again.

  "Computer, lights," he said.

  The bulbs around the captain's stateroom flickered to life. The bagpipes continued, piped through speakers in the ceiling.

  "And turn off the god damned alarm."

  The music stopped.

  Ramsey smacked his dry lips and tossed the sheets to the side of his bunk. Dressed in only a white t-shirt and boxer shorts, he pulled his legs over the side of the bed and planted his bare feet on the cold, metal deck.

  He cleared his throat and got up, crossing to the sink along the wall. He spat into the basin and stared into the mirror as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. He nodded to himself and gave a sarcastic salute.

  For a man in his late 30s, Captain Ramsey was a little young to command his own starship, even a worn-out freighter like the Steppenwolf. He had spent his early years paying his dues in the merchant marines, eventually becoming an executive officer and, finally, a captain.

  "Computer," Ramsey said, "what's the ship's status?"

  A disembodied voice, monotone but obviously male, said "During your sleep cycle, the ship dropped out of hyperspace and is currently en route to the planet Samarta. First Mate Park currently has the conn. There is one hour left in his duty shift."

  "What about our cargo?"

  "The twenty tons of pharmaceuticals are stable. No apparent shifting during hyperspace egress."

  "Thanks, Computer," Ramsey said. "You're a peach."

  "Thank you, sir. You're an eggplant."

  "That's not a thing."

  "Are you sure, sir?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well, sir," the Computer said. "I'll make a note of it."

  Ramsey pulled down his drawers and tossed them, along with his shirt, into the corner. It was the captain's cabin, but nothing to brag about. The shower was like a metal coffin set on its end, barely large enough for Ramsey's body. Still not fully awake, he fumbled the temperature lever, giving him a long burst of frigid water before it heated enough to be tolerable. He dribbled shampoo into his blond, closely-cropped hair as he emptied his bladder onto the floor and down the drain. There was nothing glamorous about star travel, not on this ship anyway.

  He hurried to soap himself up and wash out the shampoo. Water pressure was never a sure thing and hot water was a luxury. When he finished, he stepped out onto the metal plating. This time he was more aware of the vibrations of the ship passing through the bottoms of his feet. Whether in his stateroom, on the bridge, or in the engine room, everything on the Steppenwolf hummed to its own frequency.

  Ramsey got dressed and then stuck his head under the sink faucet to take a long drink. The water had a hint of rust. He brushed his teeth and headed for the bridge.

  "Morning, Captain," First Mate Park greeted him with a smile. Park was Korean by heritage, not that anyone knew where Korea was anymore. Still, Park's family could trace their lineage to the Maia, one of the five surviving sleeper ships. All humans came from one of the five, but Ramsey's own ancestry was anyone's guess.

  "Mornin'," Ramsey said, slipping into the seat next to Park.

  The bridge of the Steppenwolf was like a bomber cockpit, two command chairs and not much else.

  "Do you want the conn?" Park asked.

  "Not yet," Ramsey replied.

  The Steppenwolf stayed on course through the system. Ramsey normally kept to the outer provinces of the Imperium where cargoes were more lucrative due to raiders and the Pirate Clans. This one was different. Ramsey had taken a special assignment, a hold full of medical supplies, destined for a corporate world owned by Warlock Industries. Situated snugly in the safety of the Core Worlds, the planet was nearer to the Imperial capital on Aldorus where the Navy was ever present. Maybe Ramsey could relax for a change.

  "There's something on sensors," First Mate Park said.

  Captain Ramsey examined the round monitor between the two of them. Four contacts, each glowing green, were moving slowly toward the center of the circle.

  "They're on an intercept course," Park said.

  "I can see that," Ramsey said. "I'm taking the conn."

  "Aye, sir."

  "I'm changing course."

  While not as large as most freighters, the Steppenwolf was no less awkward in flight. At fifty yards long, the ship looked like an obese toddler laying on its belly with its arms and legs tucked in.

  "They're matching our course, sir," Park said.

  "Tell me something I don't know."

  "Also, their transponders are turned off."

  "Thanks for that."

  The green contacts on the sensor grid turned an ominous red.

  "They can't be pirates this close to the capital," Ramsey reasoned. "That would be insane."

  "A syndicate outfit?"

  "Warlock Industries would've paid off all the syndicate guys," Ramsey said. "They always have their business in order."

  "They're in visual range," Park said. "Putting them up on the monitor."

  A display came alive. Four fuzzy dots appeared against a black background. The image sharpened and zoomed in. Ramsey instantly recognized what he saw: a flight of fighters, their wings curved into sharpened points like knives.

  "Pirate Clans!" the captain said in disbelief.

  "They're firing."

  "Shields up," Ramsey said. "Full power to starboard."

  Not willing to take his eyes off the screen, Ramsey fumbled blindly for his headset. His fingers touched and then grasped the plastic earpiece. He jammed it into his ear and flipped a switch on the control panel by his leg, opening a communication channel.

  "Mayday, mayday," he said. "This is the S. S. Steppenwolf declaring an emergency. We're under attack by Pirate Clan ships. We need assistance immediately. Repeat, immediately!"

  Captain Durant Blixx stood silently in the corridor of the Hotspur, just outside Airlock One. He listened as his quartermaster, Jack Calico, spoke into an intercom box just below the window on the airlock hatch. Through the window, a man named Sid Dugdale peered out, perspiration running down his face.

  In his early forties, Calico was wide at the shoulders and his belly hung over the belt of his uniform. Bald on top, his eyebrows made up for it with both fullness and an unrestrained abandon. He was reading from a datapad in his thick-finge
red hands.

  "Mister Dugdale," Calico said in a baritone voice, "you’ve been convicted of stealing from your fellow crewmen. Pursuant to Article B of the Pirate Code, you are hereby sentenced to death by spacing through the airlock."

  "I didn’t do nothing!" Sid pleaded by way of the intercom. "I never saw those boots before and I didn't take them neither."

  "Well, Sid," Calico replied calmly, "Mister Paterson's new boots were found in your locker."

  "I don't know how they got there!"

  "You heard the witness testify you had envied the footwear ever since Mister Paterson took them from that freighter last month. You said before everyone in the galley those boots were too small for Paterson's fat feet. Clearly you knew about them and were an active participant in their disappearance."

  "This ain’t justice!" Sid declared. "Please, Captain, can’t you help me?"

  Durant Blixx stirred. His hair and beard were a deep, auburn red like old rust on the side of a sailing ship. With blazing green eyes, he stared directly at the unfortunate man behind the window.

  "You're a thief among thieves," he said. "We have our code to protect us from each other. When you break that code, you must pay the price."

  With that, the captain nodded to the quartermaster, who touched the control pad on the airlock door. The intercom was turned off so neither man could hear Sid screaming as the outside door opened, exposing him to the hard vacuum of space. Through the glass, they watched the writhing body float silently through the open portal and exit the ship.

  "It's a sad business," Calico shook his head. "But at least Mister Paterson has his boots back. Too bad he can’t wear them on account of his fat feet."

  "When do we reach the Samarta system?" Blixx asked.

  "Within the hour, sir," the quartermaster said. "We should intercept the target shortly thereafter."

  "Good. I'll be glad to see some action after this."

  "Aye, sir."

  Blixx climbed a pair of ladders until he reached the command deck. Instead of heading straight to the bridge, he stopped by his stateroom that also served as his office. The central living space contained a desk, bookcase, and several comfortable chairs. To the left and right, doorways led to the bedroom and toilet respectively. Expensive carpets covered most of the floor. Paintings, several in gilded frames, hung along the walls between gold sconces warming the room with light. Nearly everything in the room was stolen from merchant ships by Blixx and his crew.

  Behind a wide rosewood desk, the captain sat down in a brown leather chair. He tapped the glass-like top of the desk, which blazed to life, showing files and images. A brightly colored advertisement, with blinking letters, appeared across the screen.

  WANT THAT FRESH, CLEANED-OUT FEELING?

  ENJOY A SPASTIC COLA TODAY!

  ANOTHER QUALITY PRODUCT FROM MOFOCO!

  Irritably, Blixx swiped the spam to the edge of the screen where it disappeared. Collecting himself, he tapped one of the file icons, which expanded into the picture of an emerald-skinned man with horns growing from his head. The man's eyes were bright red as he glared out at the captain.

  Blixx tapped the image again and the face started speaking.

  "Durant," he said in a deep voice, "messages between us entail a certain level of risk, but it’s imperative you send me reports of your progress. Listening to media reports of your exploits is inadequate. If you wish to receive additional targets, I expect you to live up to our arrangement."

  "Arrogant son-of-a-bitch," Blixx said.

  "Must you swear, sir?" said a small voice from the corner of the room.

  A robot, or what was left of him, sat in a red lounge chair. Its head was made from blue plastic, but without eyes or mouth or any other easily discernible orifices. Its blue chest was intact, as well as its right arm and hand. However, its left arm and both legs were nothing more than stumps from which fiber optic wires hung loosely.

  "I forgot you were there," Blixx said as if speaking to a piece of furniture he had just bumped.

  "No doubt,” the robot said. “As for why you're keeping me here, that's another question."

  "I like the company."

  "I don't even have a name or, if I did, you seem to have erased it."

  Blixx smiled. "If I didn't brain-wipe you from time to time, you'd know too much and then I'd really have to get rid of you."

  "Being spaced out an airlock would be a nice change of scenery."

  "What did you think of the message I just played?" Blixx asked, changing the subject.

  With its remaining hand, the robot scratched the side of its head casing. "Well, it raises a few questions."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, the person on the recording was obviously Magna. Even with the brain wipes I still know humans and the Magna despise each other, so it’s odd that you’re working with one. Also, since the Magna Supremacy sends privateers to strike Imperial shipping, in direct competition with the Pirate Clans, that makes your actions doubly strange. If the other clans found out, I think you'd be in some hot water, to use the human expression."

  "Very good, robot!" Blixx said. "I can see why I keep you around."

  "So, why are you doing it then?"

  "Little minds think of little things," the captain said. "The other clans — the Butcher Boys, the Skeleton Crew, even Maude's Marauders — they're content with eating whatever scraps they can catch on the Imperial frontier. The true feast lies deeper, toward the core, but attacking shipping in the interior is too ambitious for them, but not for me. I'm an alpha predator, not a vulture. I designed the Hotspur to strike at the heart of the empire."

  "So, what of your Magna friend?"

  "A marriage of convenience," Blixx shrugged. "A means to an end."

  "What does he get out of it?" the robot asked.

  A red light flashed across the captain's desk. Blixx touched the surface, opening a screen containing Quartermaster Calico's face.

  "What is it, Jack?" the captain said.

  "The targeted freighter is in range," Calico replied.

  "Very well," Blixx said. "Launch the fighters when ready and plot an intercept course. I'll change and get ready for the boarding party."

  "Aye, sir."

  The quartermaster's image blinked out of existence. Blixx stood from his chair.

  "Are you going to erase my memory again?" the robot wondered.

  Blixx went to his closet where an armored bodysuit hung. He pulled the suit out, feeling the heft of the interwoven plates designed to repel ballistic and energy weapons.

  "Maybe when I get back," he said, not turning around.

  Flight Leader Chapman heard the mayday call over the emergency band and ordered his group of four Banshee interceptors to change course toward the Steppenwolf.

  In a finger-four formation, Chapman's interceptor took the lead with his wingman to the left and the other two Banshees behind and to the right. Each fighter looked like a flying wing with engines in the back and ion cannons in the front. The cockpit protruded in a pod at the center of the wing's leading edge.

  The voice of Lieutenant Erickson, his wingman, crackled in Chapman's helmet. "What are pirates doing around here?"

  "No idea," Chapman replied. "Go to full thrust."

  Torches of blue flame ignited behind the four craft, propelling them at several hundred kilometers per second. With nothing for reference, Chapman had no sense of speed except for the readouts projected across his visor. He thought about radioing the Steppenwolf, but wanted to keep the element of surprise if possible, knowing any signal could give away their position.

  It didn't take long before his sensors started picking up blooms of heat against the cold backdrop of space. Plasma explosions lit up the infrared spectrum, which Chapman recognized as blaster fire, probably from fighters.

  They were in visual range now, at least at the highest magnification. On his screen, Chapman could just make out four tiny ships buzzing around the Steppenwolf like hornets circling their
nest. The freighter's shields glowed with every hit.

  Two of the pirate fighters veered away and came toward Chapman's flight.

  "They've seen us," Chapman said over the comm. "Erickson and I will take the first two. Ramos and Kline, take the ones attacking the freighter."

  "Roger that," the others said in unison.

  Chapman started to regret not becoming a shuttle pilot like his mother wanted.

  In Chapman's visor display, two square target designators appeared around the fighters heading his way. Gripping the control stick between his legs, Chapman pulled to the right slightly, moving a circular aiming reticle, at the center of his HUD, over one of the squares. Even through the gloves of his flight suit, he could feel the trigger against his finger.

  The circular and square symbols pulsated. The enemy was on target and in range. Chapman squeezed the trigger. Beams of orange light fired from both sides of the cockpit canopy, disappearing to a point in the distance. At the same time, streaks of light flashed past Chapman's interceptor and Erickson's Banshee disintegrated into a cloud of burning plasma.

  Stunned, Chapman managed to keep firing until one of the pirate fighters exploded. The surviving fighter rolled sideways as it made evasive maneuvers.

  "Stay on the Steppenwolf," he told the other two pilots. "I've got this one."

  Chapman pulled his Banshee up and over, trying to point his nose at the target. An arrow, part of the HUD, moved along his line of sight, showing him what direction to fly. When the designator square appeared again, the pirate fighter was much larger in the frame, only a few hundred meters away.

  Chapman fired and fired again, missing both times. He decreased the thrust in his starboard engine slightly, giving him a tighter turn and bringing his aiming reticle closer to the targeting square. For a split second, the two symbols overlapped and flashed. Chapman pulled the trigger, sending spears of light into the fighter. Its wing broke apart, followed by a blinding flash as the rest of the craft erupted.