Dark Iron King Volume I: Thy King's Will Be Done (Unreal Universe Book 1)

by Lee Bond

  But this, though, hunting down Garth Nickels for Commander Aleksander! This was something worth doing, a task worthy of the great Salingh family lineage!

  The man had been everywhere, done everything. He’d been a hero, a saint, a victor.

  Also … assassin, devil and destroyer.

  Both sets of traits, seen through the multi-faceted eyes of someone who understood the nature of necessity and of life, were admirable.

  Tendreel flipped through another series of documents, paying little heed to the warnings blazoned every few inches. Where Commander Aleksander had gotten them from was of no concern to her specifically. Following the chain of possession, her be-tusked Commander would fry for violating Trinity’s very specific Laws about these particular documents, while she, Tendreel Salingh, would not; she was a protected species, one of the rare few permitted to travel through greater Trinityspace with relative impunity.

  The worst –and it was the very worst- thing that could happen was an enforced return to the musty, dusty and spore-filled worlds of home.

  Tendreel really hoped that didn’t happen. As much as she loved Home, at the end of the day, it was just a bunch of mushrooms lounging around talking about how wise they were. A disgraceful return would mean countless thousands of hours listening to those old mushrooms maunder on and on about the cost of foolishness.

  The Myco flushed, going so far as to look around her tiny, cramped quarters in embarrassment. If any of her relatives could hear her thoughts! Luckily, the nearest Myco was half a galaxy away doing who knew what, and unless her great-grandspore was devoting an unusual amount of time focusing on her effect on the tapestry, no one would know of her disrespect.

  Tendreel shook her head –a gesture emulated to fit in with her human counterparts at first but one that now made a great deal of sense and was as habitual as anything- before bending back to the readouts.

  From the moment Commander Aleksander had given her the hugely illegal files, Tendreel had seen … something. Something great and vast that –if her intuition was correct and up to the challenge- blanketed the stars with its shocking complexity.

  At the center, Garth Nickels. As impossible as it seemed, one man and one man alone was somehow intimately connected to a … a … a something spread across the whole Universe!

  Since appearing on the scene just over a decade ago, he’d been a dervish of activity. Destroying first worlds, then solar systems, then Galaxies, though not necessarily in that order. He’d been involved in the most high-profile situations the Universe had ever seen, coming out relatively unscathed. Other men and women –even Offworlders- surviving even a fraction of Nickels’ madcap exploits found themselves irrevocably –some few would say irredeemably- changed, yet Nickels? Nickels was …

  Tendreel understood little about human psychology so wasn’t –honestly- the best being to speculate on things like ‘frame of mind’, but the few recordings of Garth from his time on Hospitalis that’d made it to Trinityspace before the War suggested that he was, in human terms, doing okay.

  There were hints of sadness and desperation mingled in with anger. Emotions which, given the man’s checkered career and even more dubious hobbies, were easily accepted and quite appropriate, but … all of that was covered under a layer of a soldier’s grim humor.

  That behavioral tick was something Tendreel hadn’t come across whilst working for the Army, and it certainly wasn’t a thing the Mycogene-Alzants practiced in any way, shape or form. Everyone aboard a Trinity Military Services vessels was as crisp as a freshly ironed shirt. There was a lot of saluting and even more of the highest possible professional attitudes. That led to precisely two things: covered-up suicides and frankly terrible behavior towards diligent and hard-working Offworlders from, say, the Alzant system.

  Aboard a SpecSer ship, though, the rules were … different.

  No two uniforms were alike, oftentimes making it difficult for Tendreel to figure out who was in charge and who was merely a grunt; some low-level operatives in Specter took a great deal of pride in how they appeared, choosing to dress immaculately while their commanding officers were most often comfortable seeming as though they’d just crawled out of a sewer.

  It was taking considerable effort to clue into the bewildering range of cues –both subtle and unsubtle, verbal or otherwise- exchanged between Specters of different ranks. Sometimes it was a nod, sometimes it was nothing more than a quick squint of the eyes. Worse still, it all seemed variable, as if they made it all up on the fly and everyone just nodded their heads and went on with their day like nothing had happened.

  And Specter humor?

  It was as dark as it was inappropriate!

  Soldiers serving with distinction and honor aboard the TMS Sparrow were slowly growing mad as the mysterious five who floated through space whispered and cajoled everyone to open their airlock doors, while their Specterly counterparts had –more than once- dropped their trousers and mooned those powerful beings, inviting them to ‘kiss their asses’ and to ‘take a walk on the dark side of the moon’.

  Commander Aleksander Politoyov, fully in charge of the Specter armed forces and nominal commander-in-chief for the Army until Trinity’s replacement was brought up to speed, had laughed before shaking his head at the morbid invitation. Then he’d handed her the files she was currently working her way through and had left.

  And that was the behavior of so-called ‘standard’ Specters. The shenanigans the Heavy Elites got themselves up to were a hundred times worse, and the man she was hunting for was worse still! Tendreel knew herself well enough to realize that if she were ever in a single situation as terrifying as any one of those endured by Nickels, she most assuredly would not –for example- light a cigar from the flames of a burning corpse before suggesting they ‘go find themselves a place that did wicked barbecue’.

  Garth’s inscrutable behavior notwithstanding, Tendreel appreciated Commander Aleksander’s show of faith.

  Even greater, though, was her appreciation in being given the opportunity to piece this mystery together.

  Not the mystery of where Garth Nickels was, either; she’d found the most likely spot where the Specter was within hours of accessing the files, but had yet to tell her commanding officer of the success, out of fear that he’d ‘pull the plug’ on the op.

  Tendreel smiled slyly at the mild deception; unwilling to quit this mystery yet, she’d … prevaricated, requesting more information, more authority to engage more data, pointing out that Garth Nickels was a masterful deceiver, saying that while it might seem like he was somewhere with one hundred percent certainty, it was just as likely he was standing right behind you.

  Politoyov had acquiesced without hesitation, agreeing with her summation and suggesting she take as much time as necessary to get all her ducks in a row and so now the unassuming Mycogene had passwords and authority idents capable of logging her into the very same non-AI storage systems Politoyov himself used.

  No, where Garth Nickels was right then was of little concern and even less interest. More captivating, more interesting, was precisely what Garth Nickels was looking to accomplish with his vast, barely understood or even seen plan, and precisely how he’d pull it altogether when the time was –for him- ‘right’.

  But it was how to figure it all out. She’d already found the center, and it was Garth Nickels. Now it was time to find the edges, and work her way back in.

  Tendreel looked at her handwritten notes, comparing what she read there to what the brutishly slow non-AI system had uncovered and nodded. Another thread had been plucked loose.

  It was time to place a call to Captain Edio Tekmara.

  ***

  Babel loved his job. It was one of his most favorite things because it allowed him to do his other favorite thing, which was landing on a planet and embracing a new culture to the fullest. Naturally, the embracing stuff was all a cover for his not-so-secret other favorite thing, which was working up new cons. Yessir, SpecSer’s mandat
e of ‘keep what you can carry without blowing up the planet –too much- on the way out’ and his own particular brand of fun meshed together so perfectly that there were times Babel suspected Special Services had been invented solely for his benefit.

  Babel wandered through the quiet ship, enjoying this special alone time as only a man who was most comfortable in a bath robe could; belt loosely tied, no socks, and nothing on underneath. The rest of the crew knew of his penchant for semi-nudity and turned a blind eye to the man’s practices so long as he did so only when he was the only one aboard.

  The others were all off doing that thing they did where they were all polite and obsequious, which seriously wasn’t something Babel’d been any good at ever, which was why he was strolling around the ship, half naked instead of rolling his eyes and pretending he gave a damn at what was coming out of everyone’s mouth.

  Eating a sandwich as he strolled through the ship and down memory lane, Babel caught himself sincerely wishing Nickels was doing all right. When their commanding officer had bounced that … ship … off the quicksilver bubble, causing it to go all kinds of wobbly, the only thought on everyone’s mind had been ‘this is it, this is the end, and the monsters have found a way out’.

  A harrowing moment, until the AI systems –thankfully unaffected by soul-clenching explosions of fear, terror and inexplicably remembered IndoRussian prayers- located a survivor, a survivor rather implausibly identified as Garth ‘Unpronounceable Last Name’ Nickels, floating out there in space.

  Babel took a left at the corridor junction, angling towards the communication room. Ostensibly, he was headed there to do some electronic espionage; Telgar, Cianni, and Eddie were doing their best to blow smoke up some fancy-pants Elder’s billowy skirts while stony Dagon was, ironically, doing a little ‘digging’ of his own, leaving a conman to see if he could root something out of the Yellow Dog computers without being caught.

  If Babel could have his druthers, he’d druther be swooping through the Universe hunting down their missing captain, so he could ask –very bluntly- just what the fuck was really going on. SpecSer’s internal investigations concerning the ‘weirdness surrounding Planet X had been very intense and very unconcerned with possible interdimensional alien invasion and more focused quite subtly on time spent with the ‘ex’ Mercenary Captain Gibberish-Name, leaving them all to suspect –quite rightly, if anyone had bothered to ask Babel- that the boss-man was up to some next-level bullshit that had some fairly powerful –and far too fond of blowing stuff up- systemic AI rulers ‘concerned’.

  Everyone save the Old Man, that was.

  Politoyov seemed content to let Nickels do what-the-fuck-ever it was he was doing, leaving Babel to believe that the whole internal investigation had been a dog and pony show to calm Trinity down.

  No matter the reasons behind the investigation, Garth needed to be found, needed to be warned that he was being hunted. Beyond that... Whatever their captain was doing … he needed their particular brand of help, even if the dick insisted –as he already had- he was fine on his own. They’d literally been forced into pretending his lame lies while he’d stolen their ship out from under their feet.

  So here they were now, in a solar system crammed full of gentlemen gangsters who’d rather drink a cup of burning bleach than admit they had a problem their noble clans couldn’t handle.

  Babel walked into the communication room, frowning at the light spilling from the big screen that dominated one wall. Dagon. Had to be. The guy always worried about breaking the keys -even with the special gloves he wore to cushion his rocky fingers- so he tended to leave things on rather than turning them off.

  “If he left a link on … oh man is Eddie gonna be chapped.” Babel rubbed his hands gleefully. It was always a bit of a laugh when Dagon was in the hot seat, and if it weren’t for the fact that he, Babel, was almost always in trouble with the Captain for one thing or another, he’d feel guilty.

  Well, not precisely guilty. He’d … pretend to feel guilty at his more obvious pleasure at someone’s discomfort and everyone would believe …

  “Hey!” Babel pointed at the … mushroom … on screen. His eyes automatically tracked to the timer at the lower right hand side of the monitor. Twenty minutes. “Hey! Who’re you? What are you? And more importantly, I hope you got a lot of credits lying around because Armageddon Troop Too sure ain’t paying for this call. Twenty minutes! That’s a king’s ransom.”

  Tendreel Salingh recognized Babel Sinfell from his dossier. Born and bred to be a political wunderkind for his people, Sinfell had been a hairs’ breadth away from realizing that dream before –and this wasn’t in any sealed records anywhere- before successfully arranging his own spectacular downfall by conning a satellite branch of Glass Hammer into attacking a small outpost. Identified as home to a small cadre of high-tech local smugglers, the outpost had actually been a launching point for a Yellow Dog incursion into Glass Hammer territory. A brief but bloody gang war had ensued, resulting in Babel Sinfell’s rapid egress from his home solar system before the ashes had even had a chance to cool.

  Tendreel gathered this was almost certainly why Babel was stuck in the ship in a ratty old bathrobe instead of sneaking around gathering Intel, as per his job code; Yellow Dog never forgot a face, never ignored a debt, and with their particular brand of AI coding, neither did their machines.

  “I am Tendreel Salingh, Tech Expert First Class, currently in assignment around Latelyspace.” The Myco bowed her head. “I am a Mycogene from the system Alzant.”

  “So,” Babel drawled the word, “you’re not really a mushroom but a sentient disease wearing a fancy mushroom suit? Neat.”

  Tendreel opened her mouth, finding herself blinking in earnest confusion for several long seconds. Babel Sinfell, scruffy looking and indecently clothed in a bathrobe leaving nothing to the imagination, was the first non-Myco sentient to even come close to the truth without AI assistance. “I … yes.”

  “Awesome. It’s fun when I’m right.” Babel hopped into a chair, rearranged his bathrobe –it hadn’t gone amiss that several of the musty Offworlder’s eyes were locked onto his … areas- and continued. “So, Tech Expert Salingh of Mycogene-Alzant, what’s going on? If you knew how to find this vessel, you gotta know we’re currently involved in an extremely delicate mission in what could loosely be described as a hostile land but more accurately described as ‘murderously insane’. Oh, also, if you could, you know, provide proof of payment for this ridiculously expensive Q-Comm transmission so we don’t wake up tomorrow with one of Trinity’s Reps banging on the Millennium Falcon’s door with an arrest warrant? And thennnnn, because we’re both on the same page vis a vis the previously aforementioned secret mission, fuck off and lose this number.”

  Tendreel struggled to grab hold of the conversation. “Under Article 4, Section 32 of Trinity’s Laws and Regulations Concerning Wartime, during a prolonged engagement with a hostile species inside Trinityspace, all Quantum Communications fees between military vessels, attached or unattached to a specific wartime activity, are waived so long as one or more of those involved is directly involved in said endeavor.”

  Seeing the chatty mushroom suit wasn’t going anywhere, Babel typed Tendreel’s name into his computer. A few seconds later, he was tsking and wagging an accusatory finger. “Says here you’re Army. Don’t talk to Army. Army’s only good for looking good and getting regular hard-working guys like me dead. Which you’re workin’ real hard on doing yourself, Army. Yellow Dogs’ve scanners that can detect quantum chatter, you know. It’s kind of why we’re here on the downlow?”

  Tendreel bristled. She’d already wasted twenty minutes and had been about to see if she could hack her way into the surveillance cameras aboard Armageddon Troop Too’s ship when the indecently dressed Specter in front of her had come strolling in. Now he was accusing her of being Army!

  “Listen here, I used to be Army. Commander Aleksander pulled me because … because. Now can we get to the purp
ose of this call? I have a considerable task ahead of me and you are just as guilty of wasting my time as I am yours.”

  Babel’s suspicion-o-meter tripped into the red. Politoyov didn’t pull people from anywhere. Not even if he really needed them. That wasn’t the Specter way. The Specter way meant waiting until a resource found him, her or itself in a world of trouble with no other way out save Special Services.

  It was as standard as the paperwork to get TP issued. Babel’d even snuck a peek at the manual. He’d been nabbed using ‘Standard Criminal Refugee Sting #4’ and he’d fallen for it hook, line and sinker. He’d woken up in a training barracks and that was –as they said- that.

  If the Old Man actually had … ‘requisitioned’ Tendreel from Army, and she really was working on something for the curmudgeonly bastard, then she had a skill not currently in Specter’s impressive –if mostly undisclosed- talent pool.

  A quick hunt and peck through My Other Ship’s AI database revealed precisely zip; about the only useful thing the machine knew was that the Mycogene-Alzants were ‘protected’, a term which either meant ‘very closely watched and on the brink of getting their planets blowed up from a zillion miles away’ or ‘had just had their planets blowed up and are now being allowed to hang out with people again on account of they learned their lesson’.

  Which, Babel wondered, is it? More importantly, what can you do that no one else in Specter can?

  Tendreel saw the change in Babel’s demeanor a little late, but once she saw it, the difference was hard to miss. Casual humor and dismissive attitude had been replaced with cautious preparation and distrust. The Myco considered the probability that –moving forward- everything coming out of the man’s mouth would be lies, prevarication and attempts to throw her off-guard. She … adjusted.

  “Time,” the Tech Expert announced, “is short, Babel, and as you say, you are in the middle of a delicate operation. Allow me to get to the point, then.”