Price of Imperium Read online

  A cut back to the camera on the surface showed the feeder touch down. Hammerbeams pounded into the surface, sending debris flying everywhere. The camera caught a view, beyond the bodies, of stone and metal flying up along the tube, and then blackness. Tam shivered, the 'pad smooth under his sweating fingers. He looked away a moment, then forced his vision back to the screen. The surface camera was gone, and he was sure there would be no others.

  Now the view was from space once again, one planet feeding on the other like some creature from a horror vid. He took a deep breath and watched the final moments. It had come quickly, the planet collapsing as the tube drove ever deeper into the core. A caption underneath mentioned time-compression, but all Holron saw was a world collapsing like an orange being sucked dry.

  Dropping the 'pad, he stumbled across the cabin to the 'fresher.

  "Shower, needle, hot." he said as he entered the cubicle. The hot water plastered the t-shirt to his chest and he stripped it off, following it with the boxers. Leaning against the wall he let the hot jets pummel him as he shivered at the image of the children's bodies flying up that feeder. He slid slowly down the slick wall, coming to rest huddled in the bottom of the cubicle, the needles beating against his head and shoulders as the images flashed against his eyelids; but this time the children all looked like Lieutenant Deggon.

  "We have to stop them."

  Chapter 2

  John huddled on the vent bathing in the warm air coming up from below. Hardly anyone was on the street at this hour, two fifty-three, whispered one of the voices in his head, he could sit in the middle of the sidewalk and actually feel warm. The grille dug into his backside, so he rocked from side to side, trying to ignore the hunger.

  Did he eat yesterday, or was it the day before? He couldn't remember. It was best to stay on the vent and try to make it through the night. Tomorrow he could go to a shelter, or soup kitchen. Maybe this one would have roast tarhale.

  "Hey! Get the fuck off my vent!" The man was big, with dirty blond hair sticking out from under a wool cap, his face hidden by a straggly beard. "Get off before I kick you off, dumbfuck."

  He means to attack you the voices whispered. John rose, his clothes felt wrong, heavy and oily, binding his joints, but he ignored the feeling, all his attention on the other man.

  "You and who else?" he growled, dropping into a combat stance.

  The other man ducked his head and charged, arms swinging. John weaved right, turned, and struck; sticking out a leg to trip his opponent on the way past. A moment later he was kneeling on his attacker, one hand raised.

  "Stop! Police!" A bright light shone in his face. "Get up slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them."

  Do what he says, the voices whispered. John got up slowly, holding his hands above his head, eyes fixed on the figure on the ground.

  "Walk straight backwards to the sound of my voice." He followed the commands cautiously, reaching backwards with his toes as he walked. A spotlight illuminated a man in dark clothing bending over John's attacker, one hand on the weapon at his hip.

  "Put your hands behind you," the voice continued. "I'm going to handcuff you for my own safety, but you are not under arrest.".

  John felt the bite of the cuffs on his wrists, and wriggled his fingers, not pulling against the bracelets, but checking the circulation. It wasn't comfortable, but he could still move his fingers. A man came into sight, wearing the same dark clothing, uniform, as the one kneeling by his attacker.

  "Do you have anything sharp in your pockets?" his captor asked, "anything I might cut myself on?"

  "No sir," he replied. Police, he's a police officer, he saw the badge on the other's chest. Another young man stood beside the police officer, shadowed by the glare of the spotlight. The officer patted him down quickly and efficiently, then started pulling things out of his pockets. There wasn't much there, just some papers with scribbling on them, the stub of a pencil, and a few cents.

  The man with the light, cameraman, the voices prompted, moved so the light was now shining towards John.

  The officer's voice caught John's attention again. "Do you have any ID on you?"

  "ID?" John replied, holding out his left hand palm upwards, a small bump clearly visible on the inside of his wrist.

  "Yes, ID," the officer said. "Drivers license, social, birth certificate...Something that says who you are."

  "John...John Doe," he said cautiously.

  "John Doe," the officer started to write it down then stopped. "John Doe? I don't have time for jokers, tell me your real name."

  "Real name?" John said slowly, "that is my name, John Doe, the one I was given."

  "Well Mr. Doe, if that's the case and you have no ID then you're coming for a ride."

  "Coming for a ride?" John furrowed his brow. "Am I under arrrest?"

  "No, but I need to take you back to the precinct to see if you have any warrants." The officer bagged the contents of John's pockets and maneuvered him towards the car. "Get in, carefully."

  John didn't resist as he sank into the back seat of the car; it was warm inside. He settled into the seat, wriggling to take the weight off his cuffed hands. The back of the car was clean, almost sterile, with the wire of the cage rising behind the front seat. He sank back into the seat as they started, wishing they had fastened his hands in front of him. The odd word filtered back from the front, hashed by static. John sat back and watched the lights of passing cars coming towards them, all on the same level. There was something soothing about the way they moved.

  The car came to a stop and he snapped awake. They were in an underground garage, its beige walls marred by chipped paint. The door opened and he was pulled out, almost slipping on the slick cement floor.

  "This way," the officer pointed him towards a door, wires clearly visible in the dirty glass insert that made up the top half. Their feet echoed across the floor, his own softer slaps a faint counterpoint to the policeman's booted stride

  A hand on his arm provided all the guidance he needed, and they passed through a handful of doors before he was deposited in a small room. John sank down onto the hard bench, perching on the edge so his hands weren't pushed against the cinderblock wall. The tile floor was scuffed, as was the steel plate across the bottom of the door.

  Someone came in, undid his cuffs and fingerprinted him. If they spoke he didn't notice. Time passed.

  "Ok, you're good," he hadn't seen anyone come in, but the speaker was the policeman who had brought him here. The man's nametape said HANSON, John noticed absently.. "No warrants, you're free to go."

  "Go?" John looked at the man, noticing the badge wasn't polished, and there were wrinkles in the uniform. Half a demerit at captain's mast, the thought slipped in before he spread his arms, the dirty clothes riding against his skin. "Go where? Back to the heat vent?"

  "I guess I can take you to the shelter." The officer wrinkled his nose. "At least they can give you a shower and breakfast."

  John's stomach rumbled at the word breakfast, and he swallowed hard to clear his mouth. "Thanks."

  He was put back in another car, no different from the one that had brought him except for a gum-wrapper on the floor. The sun was beginning to rise, and he squinted for a moment, before his eyes settled. The city looked crisp in the early light, shadows sharp edged.

  They pulled to a stop, and the door opened-- "Here we are. Street Survival Society."

  John nodded and got out of the car. The shelter's name was painted on a board above the door, cigarette butts and blobs of half-chewed gum formed a barricade, leaving a thin clear lane. A few men huddled against the wall, smoke rising from their cupped hands.

  One hawked and spat, marking the ground in front of John, but he walked right past, following the officer to the door. A bell rang as it opened, and they entered a short hall, blocked at the end with a counter topped by a sliding window of frosted plastic.

  "Be right there!" a woman's voice called.

  "No hurry," came the po
liceman's response. "I've got another one for you."

  The window snapped along the track and a woman's face appeared in the opening. She was blonde, and her blue eyes flared like lasers through the ports of her glasses. "Another one? Where am I going to put him? Huh? And what about the budget? You know we're full up."

  "You're always full up," the policeman soothed. "Everyone's always full up. Look, he was attacked on a heat vent earlier tonight. We're full too, and he hasn't any warrants so we can't keep him."

  John stood there, quietly, wondering who they were talking about like a piece of meat. The woman's eyes tracked over to him, and he was sure he caught a wink.

  "Alright, alright, I'll see if we can find room for him for a couple of days." She pushed her glasses back up her nose with one slender finger. "But you owe me."

  "Dinner?"

  "Tuesday," she leveled a finger at the officer. "And this time it better be decent, not another truck-stop buffet."

  "What's wrong with the buffet? They have prime rib and it's all you can eat."

  "What's wrong with the buffet?" She sighed loudly. "If you have to ask you'll never know."

  She reached down and picked up a clipboard and pen. "Okay, let's get him processed so you can go look for a real restaurant." She crooked a finger at John. "Name?"

  "John Doe," he watched her face as he spoke, waiting for a reaction.

  "John Doe?" she said, writing on the board. "Middle initial?"

  "Middle initial?" he shook his head. "I don't think so... No, it's John... Doe."

  "Okay, I'll mark you down as not having one." Her smile was bright as she looked up at him. "So Mr. Doe, if you'll come with me..."

  John followed her as she swung open a half door and clicked her way down the tiled floor. The corridor was clean, freshly mopped and he could see her legs reflected in it. He could see scuffs along the wall, and wondered why it wasn't as clean as the floor. Then she turned and gestured to a clean tiled bathroom.

  "You can take a shower here," she pointed. "Towels are on the rack, just dump it in the bin over there. Soap and shampoo are in the stalls." She patted a washer and dryer just inside the doorway. "We've plenty of pressure so you can wash your clothes while you're showering."

  "Thank you," he walked into the middle of the room and began to strip. It was cool, and smelled of ammonia. John loaded the washer and turned it on by rote, listening to the inner voices as he started the cycle. There was plenty of hot water in the shower, and he spent a long time scrubbing himself, trying to get all the dirt out of his skin.

  The room was steamy when he finally got out, he had to wipe the mirror twice to see his face. For a moment he didn't recognize himself. He had dark hair and blue eyes, and a scruffy beard over most of his face. I look old, how long have I been stuck here? John shook his head and looked around for shaving supplies.

  He transferred his clothes and started the dryer, then got to work on shaving. He went through three razors before he was satisfied, but by the end of it he could see what he looked like. Something looked different, but before he could place it, the buzzer went off on the dryer and he went to find his clothes.

  John had just pulled on his underwear when a man came barging in waving a clipboard.

  "Excuse me," he said. "I just need you to sign something."

  John spun and dropped into a crouch before relaxing and standing up. "Sign something?" He shook his head slowly, "what do you mean sign something..."

  He was interrupted as the woman who had signed him in came storming through the doorway. "Just what do you think you're doing?" She glared at the man with the clipboard. "Who gave you the right to come barging in here bothering our clients?"

  "I'm sorry," the man held up his hands placatingly. "I'm from 'You Have the Right...' and we need to get a release form from this gentleman." John took the opportunity to take a closer look at the intruder as he defended himself against the woman who appeared to be in charge. He was short, with curly hair and glasses, wearing a puffy jacket open at the front to reveal a t-shirt beneath.

  "I don't care who has the right..." she snapped. "Nobody here gave you the right to come back here and bother our clients."

  "Look, I'm sorry," he held out the clipboard he held. "I'm from the TV series 'You Have the Right...' and one of our teams filmed this guy on a ridealong. The producers are thinking of using it so we need him to sign a release so we can use his image in the show."

  "You came in here just so you could exploit him on a TV show?" John saw the indignation on her face turn to real anger. "You couldn't leave him alone for what was probably the first real shower he's had in months." Her voice rose, "and now you want a homeless man to sign away his rights so you can make money off him?"

  "You make me sick!" She turned and pointed to the doorway. "Now get the hell out of here before I call the police and have you arrested for trespassing! I am not going stand by and let you blithely exploit these people just so your company can use him for five minutes of cable TV!"

  "TV?" John interrupted, and the man turned towards him. "You will put my picture on TV? You will broadcast it?"

  "Well, I can't guarantee it, but that's the idea." The man looked relieved that someone was talking to him rather than yelling at him. "If you sign here you give us the right to use the footage we shot of you earlier tonight, and we give you fifty dollars. If you don't sign we just tape over it 'cause we aren't allowed to use it."

  "It's exploitation that's all it is." The woman continued glaring.

  "Here," John grabbed the clipboard and pulled the pen out from under the clip. "Where do I sign?" The text on the form swam in front of his eyes, strange shapes that didn't quite make sense.

  "Here, here, and here." The smaller man pointed out the places.

  John signed his name slowly and awkwardly, conscious of the woman glaring at him the whole time. She stayed pointedly silent as the other man took back the clipboard and handed over a crisp fifty-dollar bill. The man bobbed his head and left, clutching the clipboard to his chest like a shield.

  "Now what was all that about?" Her tone of voice made John acutely aware that he was standing there in nothing more than his boxers.

  "I need to be on TV." He caught her eyes with his. "If they are ever going to find me, they need to know where to look." His voice dropped. "I need to be on TV."

  "Find you?" Her look didn't soften. "What are you talking about, why do you need to be found?"

  "I don't belong here," he said, glancing upwards. "They dropped me here and I don't know why."

  "Who dropped you here?" She looked at him, "where are you from."

  "Up there," he pointed. "I don't belong on this planet; I'm from..." His voice trailed off as he doubled over. Stabbing pain started at the base of his skull and washed forwards like a red wave.

  "Are you alright?" The woman knelt beside him while images flashed through his head. Blackness, flashes of light, uniformed figures against a viewscreen, then more redness overwhelmed him.

  His arm shot out and he grabbed her wrist... "They're coming..."

  "Let go of me." The woman twisted in his grip. "You're hurting me.. Let Go!"

  He shook his head, bringing fresh pain, and released his grip. "I'm sorry." He looked around blankly. "Who are you? Where am I?"

  "My name is Jayne, and you're in the Street Survival Society's shelter." She straightened a lock of hair that had fallen down over her face. "What was all that about John?"

  "What was what about?" The throbbing pain in his head receded slowly.

  "You were telling me where you were from and then you collapsed," she said. "You said something about someone coming."

  "I don't know, I can't remember." He looked away and realized he was still in his underwear and reached for his pants. "You mind?"

  Jayne blushed and turned away. "Get yourself dressed and I'll show you to your bunk." Her voice hardened, "but you shouldn't have sold yourself to those exploiters."

  "I need to be found," he
muttered, "they can find me if I'm on TV."

  Her back stiffened and she led him to the bunkroom.

  Chapter 3

  Tam stepped out of his cabin and had to reach for the bulkhead to keep from tripping over one of the kendradi. The old "man" muttered something his implant caught as an apology and slid sideways along the deck; dragging a fleet issue survival bag with him. The survival suit he was wearing had come from the ship's stores. Five hundred was a lot of extra bodies for a destroyer, and they'd been forced to find berths for them wherever they could.

  Deggon had wanted to divide them evenly throughout the ship, but Tam put a stop to that idea. Refugees from a destroyed world or not, the kendradi were aliens and they weren't getting access to engineering, control, or any of the weapons spaces. That left the laundry, galley, some of the bunkrooms, the shuttle-bays and most of the passageways. The result was an obstacle course between his cabin and the bridge.

  He stepped over the last of them as the bridge hatch slid open. Lenys Kharan rose from the command chair and crossed to damage control. He nodded to her and slipped into the chair. "I have the bridge Number One."

  "Aye sir, you have the bridge," she replied taking her seat.

  Rondor Station hung before them, a clumsy construct surrounded by a shoal of destroyers and cruisers. Tam drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair watching the approach on his plot. His breath was fast and shallow, and he kept imagining smells in the air. He sniffed again, ignoring the turned heads, but he couldn't smell anything.

  "It looks quiet," he muttered. "They must already be working up."

  "You may be right, sir," Kharan glanced up from her console. "I can't remember the last time I've seen that many empty berths on the station."

  "Well then Commander," he grinned, "let's hope that means we won't have any trouble getting those parts we need."

  He looked back to his plot. Most of the time he kept a simple graphical representation going, just enough to see relative positions without blurring things with too much detail. "It's what they're doing that matters, not what they look like," was a phrase his tactics instructor had reserved for anyone with the temerity to replace standard icons with images. Tam had taken years to break the habit, but with his own command had come the habit of getting a visual check on the icons whenever possible. Most of the time it wasn't possible, but there were times...