SF Books by B. V. Larson:

  The RED COMPANY Series:

  First Strike!

  Discovery

  Contact

  Invasion

  Steel Rain

  Star Runner Trilogy:

  Star Runner

  Fire Fight

  Androids and Aliens

  Rebel Fleet Series:

  Rebel Fleet

  Orion Fleet

  Alpha Fleet

  Earth Fleet

  Visit BVLarson.com for more information.

  RIFT WARRIOR #4:

  Tyrant of Jarl

  by

  B. V. Larson

  Rift Warrior Series:

  #1: The Techborn

  #2: Ghost Signal

  #3: Depths of Tamil

  #4: Tyrant of Jarl

  Copyright © 2025 by Iron Tower Press, Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

  Chapter 1

  The night before I went back to XCU, sleep eluded me. My mind was racing with fragments of conspiracy theories. After waking up twice and lying there for an hour, I made a decision: Even though he was a dick, I was going to solve Dom’s murder and uncover whatever game Mitchell was playing. Once that was done, I’d demand two weeks of R&R before heading out to Jarl.

  Sometimes, I liked to plan big—but life didn’t always cooperate.

  Determined to see my plans through, I plodded into my small living room. My primary furniture consisted of a dart board and a heavy training bag which I proceeded to unleash twenty minutes of hell on. The neighbors thumped the wall and bitched a few times, but I didn’t let it interrupt my concentration.

  When I finally left my apartment, it was still early. I stepped out into the dark, wet morning, and the city sprawled before me. It was a decaying giant of swelling concrete and rusty steel—I liked it.

  Although there wasn’t another soul in sight, holographic advertisements beckoned earnestly against the gray buildings, splashing neon colors across puddle-filled streets. A government-mandated public service announcement floated above the intersection: “Remember: Good citizens always report suspicious activity!” Then, at the loop-point, the hologram glitched. The face of the smiling woman distorted into something sinister before resetting.

  I made my way to the nearest transit station. The subway system was ancient, long past its glory days and not usually the first choice of civilized people. Water dripped from cracked ceiling panels, and there was a distinct smell of mildew. As I approached the ticket booth, I saw the familiar sight of a robot crammed into a chair designed for humans.

  “Destination?” it asked, its voice box crackling with static. The robot’s chassis was too large for the booth. Its limbs—which were awkwardly positioned to reach the controls—clunked and bumped into the bullet-proof plexiglass as it worked. A faded nameplate read “OPERATOR-372.”

  “XCU headquarters,” I replied, sliding my ID badge across the counter.

  The robot’s servos whirred as it processed my ID and my payment. Regular people couldn’t just ask to go to XCU and get their way—but I wasn’t regular people. The thing’s red optical sensors flickered briefly. Maybe it was impressed—if dumbass robots could be impressed.

  “Track four,” it crackled at last. “Train departing in seven minutes. Good day!”

  These robots were everywhere now. Cheaper than human workers, they always said. More reliable, they claimed. Just cram them into equipment built for people because designing new infrastructure would cost too much.

  When I got down to the tracks, I did a little waiting. The subway cars themselves were relics, at least seventy years old, with robot drivers wedged into human-sized cockpits, their metal bodies had to contort to fit into the space.

  I boarded the decrepit train, finding a seat that wasn’t completely covered in graffiti or questionable stains. There were a few other passengers, but they didn’t make eye-contact.

  The robot conductor sounded distorted and tinny over the ancient PA system. “Next stop, Governmental District.”

  The train lurched forward, rattling along tracks that had seen decades of neglect. Outside the grimy windows, the city slid by, a patchwork of towering skyscrapers and collapsing tenements. More holograms—this time on billboards—cast their gaudy glow into the train, advertising everything from synthetic food products to mood-altering drugs.

  Eventually, I arrived at XCU headquarters. Without a doubt, it was the most sound and secure building in this whole sector of the old city. The facility was built into the side of what used to be a natural hill, now reinforced with solid concrete and steel. It looked like an old war bunker. Most of the complex extended deep underground, a warren of laboratories and offices hidden from public view.

  The entrance especially resembled a bunker—even more than a government building. Heavy blast doors, reinforced with titanium alloy, stood between the outside world and the secrets within. Security cameras tracked my every movement as I approached.

  I was earlier than expected. Two security robots flanked the entrance, their humanoid frames casting long shadows in the morning light. Their optical sensors glowed red as they tracked my approach.

  “Identification,” one of them demanded in a mechanized approximation of human speech.

  I held up my badge, letting the scanner read the embedded chip.

  “Dane Tanner, security clearance Alpha-Seven,” the robot announced after processing my credentials. “You are not scheduled for duty for another one hundred twelve minutes.”

  “I’m here to use the exercise room,” I replied, remaining neutral despite the irritation I felt. I hated these machines, with their cold calculation and rigid adherence to protocol.

  The robots paused for a moment while they exchanged silent transmissions, talking to each other in their own private language. Then the first one spoke again.

  “Unscheduled facility use requires justification.”

  “Just keeping in shape,” I said. “Got an official job coming up.”

  More electronic chatter between the robots. I could almost see the gears turning in their metal heads as they processed this deviation from routine.

  “Access granted,” the robot finally announced. “But your presence will be logged as anomalous.”

  “Whatever gets you through the day, Tin Man,” I grumbled, striding past them into the facility.

  The main corridor stood before me, a sterile white tunnel illuminated by harsh fluorescent lighting. The walls were lined with scanning devices, silently recording biometric data from everyone who passed. Body temperature, heart rate, pupil dilation—it all fed into algorithms designed to detect deception or hostile intent.

  I made my way toward the central hub, passing more security robots along the way. Each one tracked my movement, their heads swiveling in perfect unison. The feeling of being watched had become so normal here that I barely noticed it anymore.

  The operations room was already bustling with activity despite the early hour. A massive chamber filled with rows of workstations, each attended by a technician monitoring data feeds from colony worlds. The walls were dominated by enormous holographic displays, each showing a different crisis unfolding across Earth’s fledgling empire.

  I paused at the entrance, taking in the various screens. One display showed Haven-7, the desert planet where I’d nearly died about a year ago. The colony was expanding, new structures visible from orbit. Another screen showed Tamil, the swamp world I’d just returned from. Data scrolling beneath the image indicated continued unrest between the colonists and the Reptili.

  A third display caught my attention—it was a snowball world called Jarl, my next destination. The alpine planet looked peaceful from this distance, all snow-capped mountains rising above temperate forests. But the alert indicators flashing red told a different story.

  The colony ship had become an orbiting dictator’s palace, with one man controlling a sizeable cabinet of robots and, through them, the colonists.

  “Worlds full of problems…” I said to myself. “And they keep sending me to fix them.”

  I continued down the corridor, careful to avoid the path that would take me past Mitchell’s office. The last thing I needed was a confrontation with her this early in the morning.

  The facility was a maze of hallways and security checkpoints. Each door required different clearance levels, each corridor monitored by a different set of sensors. Cameras tracked movements. Thermal scanners checked body temperature. Microphones listened for suspicious conversations. The whole place was designed to prevent secrets from escaping.

  I passed by a group of analysts huddled around a data terminal. Their conversation was hushed as they discussed some new crisis. They fell silent as I approached, their eyes following me warily. Nobody trusted anybody in this place, not really. That was the XCU way.

  As I rounded the final corner to the exercise room, I spotted Phil Jenkins exiting. Our eyes met briefly, but he quickly looked away, hurrying in the opposite direction.

  Phil was a thin, nervous man with perpetually disheveled brown hair and thick glasses that magnified his already w
ide eyes. He always looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack, which, given his job maintaining the portal technology, was probably justified.

  “Phil,” I called out, but he pretended not to hear me, disappearing around a corner.

  That was odd. Phil usually couldn’t wait to corner me and talk my ear off about his latest technological tinkering. His avoidance only heightened my suspicions. There was bullshit going on here—somewhere.

  I pushed open the door to the exercise room, a large chamber with padded floors and reinforced walls. Weight training equipment lined one wall, and a running track circled the perimeter. But the centerpiece—the thing that immediately drew my attention—was the combat sparring robot.

  This machine was more impressive than the servile public bots. It stood seven feet tall, its metallic frame designed to mimic human movement but with enhanced strength and speed. Its chassis was painted a dull gray, with joints of exposed hydraulics and servos that allowed for fluid motion. A digital scoreboard mounted on the wall behind it tracked hits, misses, and combat effectiveness.

  On a nearby rack, an assortment of padded weapons was arranged—shock staves, foam bats, and rubber knives. Some were designed for human use, others sized for the robot’s larger grip. All were dangerous in their own way, despite the safety features.

  I circled the machine cautiously, noting the subtle changes since I’d last seen it. New servos in the shoulders. Enhanced reaction sensors in the head unit. A completely rebuilt chest plate.

  And there, in the joints of its right arm, I spotted it—a dark, reddish-brown crust in the metal seams. Blood. Dom’s blood, dried and flaking away, but still visible if you knew where to look.

  This was the machine that had supposedly malfunctioned and killed our station chief. Looking at it now, standing silent and inert, it was hard to imagine it beating a man to death. But robots didn’t lie, didn’t have motives. If it had killed Dom, someone had made it do so.

  As I leaned in for a closer look, the robot’s sensors activated. Its eyes glowed a soft blue, and its head swiveled toward me with mechanical precision.

  “User detected,” it announced, surprising me by its human-like sound. “Identify yourself for combat parameters.”

  “Dane Tanner,” I said, taking a step back. “Not here to spar.”

  The robot processed this information, its internal systems humming softly. “Dane Tanner identified. Combat profile loaded. Do you wish to engage in combat training?”

  “No,” I said firmly, continuing my inspection. The robot’s sensor array consisted of multiple cameras and motion detectors spread across its head unit. Each lens tracked my movement with precision. Its central processor, housed in the reinforced chest cavity, was a state-of-the-art quantum computer capable of predicting movement patterns and adapting combat strategies in real-time.

  The scoring system on the wall still displayed Dom’s last session—an impressive 87% effectiveness rating. The guy might have been a prick, but he knew how to fight.

  “Do you wish to engage in combat training?” the robot repeated with slightly more insistence.

  “I said no, asshole,” I replied, irritated. “I’m just looking.”

  The robot’s processors paused, seemingly struggling with my refusal. “Combat training is recommended for optimal field performance. Do you wish to engage now?”

  Before I could tell the machine to shut up again, my implant phone buzzed, sending a familiar tingling sensation through my skull. I tapped the spot behind my ear to accept the call.

  “Hey there, stranger,” Tina purred inside my head. “You ghosted me last night after I dropped you off.”

  Despite everything, I couldn’t help but smile. “Sorry about that. Had some thinking to do.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking, too,” she said all friendly and warm. “Maybe I was a bit harsh. How about dinner tonight? My treat.”

  I felt my pulse increase. Maybe there was hope for us after all. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

  “Great,” she said. “Rossini’s at eight?”

  “Sounds perfect,” I replied. “Yes, absolutely.”

  As soon as the words left my mouth, the sparring robot’s eyes flashed from blue to red. “Affirmative response accepted. Commencing combat engagement.”

  My head snapped up, realizing too late what had happened. The robot had interpreted my response to Tina as acceptance of its challenge. The machine was already moving, its massive frame shifting into a combat stance.

  “You really want this, don’t you?” I asked.

  Its arms raised, metal fingers flexing as it selected the appropriate level of force from its programming.

  “Combat parameters set,” it announced. “Engaging in three... two...”

  My heart pounded as I backed toward the weapons rack. If this was the same machine that had killed Dom—and I was going to face it unarmed… I hadn’t even warmed up yet.

  “One…”

  Chapter 2

  The combat robot’s eyes glowed crimson. Machine-delivered death personified.

  “Abort sequence,” I commanded calmly and firmly—in contradiction to my heart rate.

  There was no verbal response. The robot advanced, metal frame moving with fluid precision. Not good. These sparring bots weren’t supposed to ignore verbal commands.

  “System override, authorization Tanner, security code Alpha-7,” I tried again, backing toward the center of the room.

  “Combat sequence initiated. Biometric data entered and recorded. Override denied,” the robot replied, remaining cold and mechanical.

  The iron bastard’s sensors must be reading me as hostile, now. Maybe some new kind of programming against deception. I glanced at the padded weapons rack across the room. Twenty feet away.

  Too far, plus, the robot stood between me and any chance of arming myself. Time to improvise.

  “Tina, I’ll call you back,” I said into my implant.

  “What’s happening? Are you still miffed about last night?”

  “No—ah… Exercise room. Robot malfunction.”

  There was no time for explanations. I tapped my implant to end the call, and the robot lunged.

  Seven feet of reinforced metal and advanced hydraulics propelled itself at me with startling speed. I sidestepped in the direction of the weapons rack, barely avoiding a mechanical fist that could have shattered my jaw.

  My right hook connected with its chest plate. Pain shot through my knuckles. Stupid move. Never punch metal. The machine didn’t even look dented.

  “Hostile intent affirmed. Adjusting combat parameters,” the robot announced.

  Great. Now it was getting serious.

  The machine came at me again, movements calculated and precise. No wasted motion. No fatigue. No mercy. It swung, a perfect arc aimed at my jaw. I ducked under the blow as its arm passed inches from my head.

  My counter-attack struck its knee joint. That was a better target. The robot staggered slightly, recalibrating its balance.

  “That’s right, you metal bastard. Weak spots at the joints.”

  The robot’s head swiveled toward me. “Analyzing combat strategy.”

  Shit. It was learning. I hated when they did that.

  The next attack came faster. A flurry of strikes that drove me back across the padded floor. Deflect, dodge, weave, jab. My breathing grew heavier. Sweat beaded on my forehead. The machine showed no signs of slowing.

  A glancing blow caught my shoulder, spinning me around. Pain flared, hot and immediate. That would bruise up.

  The robot pressed its advantage, forcing me into a defensive posture.

  “Target weakness identified,” it announced.

  Double shit.

  The robot feinted left, then struck right. A classic fighting combination that seemed too human to be coming from a sparring bot. My block came too late. Its fist connected with my ribs. Not full strength—the safety protocols were still partially functioning—but enough to drive the wind from my lungs.

  I stumbled backward, gasping. The robot advanced methodically. I knew if I didn’t stay focused, this thing would be all over me.

  I was also suspecting something else. Its programming had been modified. This wasn’t a malfunction. This was murder, disguised as a training accident.

  Just like Dom.