Buying Loyalty
03 Jun 2020Ironwatsas
Borrego Orbital, in HIP-114367 wasn’t exactly a well-traveled destination. Orbiting a shepherd’s moon on the edge of a ring system, it was certainly a scenic station, but that was about the only remarkable thing about it. It was the sort of sleepy Imperial heartland station that was little more than a bedroom community for the neighboring Kamocan System. A place where freight pilots would grab a quick drink while the crews exchanged their cargo and hope for a quick turnaround. Above all else, it was peaceful, and loyal to the Imperial Throne.Governor Weston Glover was tense. He felt out of place here, even though this was on his own station. The little bar called ‘The Crossroads’ was built on the inner ring just below the docking ports, a place usually frequented by foreigners, star-pilots, commanders, and those wide-eyed youngster types who liked to deal with them. Not the sort of place even a minor Imperial lord would set foot in, ordinarily.
He felt unease, at the glances he got from the spacers and pilots who gazed at him. “As you were, gentlemen.” He spoke as he walked past the low class riff-raff, before making a beeline for the VIP room’s door. The bouncer gave him no trouble, he simply placed his hand on the biometric keypad and opened the door.
Being in this place wasn’t what concerned him. As governor, it was his duty to welcome any Pilot’s Federation commanders who happened to pass through, offer them missions, and handle day-to-day administrative functions. It wasn’t a particularly busy job. Nothing exciting seemed to happen here, which suited the Governor just fine.
Then he showed up. At least the Governor assumed it was a he. The Commander known as ‘Iron’ claimed to hail from Yan-Musu. He presented his credentials, which were stamped and verified by Weston’s office. He never removed his helmet or armor in public. Never provided any detail or information on his past. There were rumors that he was a professional assassin, an alien, a robot, an agent for the Dark Wheel, or any number of wild and unsubstantiated theories.
At first, the governor was happy to have a notable Pilot’s Federation commander on-board. He helped suppress the local pirates harassing the miners in the system. He led the defense of the Conjunct Security group, organized several trade deals with neighboring systems, and entertained the local children in the station with tales of his adventures during the Great Fueleum War.
Governor Weston’s biggest mistake, he felt, was granting him the honorary title of ‘Lord Sciamach’. It was allegedly a local accolade which held little formal power, but essentially made him the private mercenary of the Governor’s office. After that point, Iron began making deals with politicians, the Xerente Blue Transport corporation, the Caraesi Prison Colony, and various out-of-system commanders. The Governor felt that he was being marginalized. That Iron was attempting to put together a power bloc against him, coasting on his deeds, popularity, and the air of mystery surrounding his identity.
Then Iron left. Departing Borrego to join the ranks of Darkwater Authority.
That’s when the problems really started.
Weston began to awake from night terrors every evening cycle, drenched in sweat and lurching around his room in a paranoid stupor. Dreams of falling into an endless abyss, or nightmares of violet eyes and grasping arms from gaping yonic voids. When he spoke to the station’s psi-physician about it, the doctor claimed to experience identical dreams, as did several dozen other people on the station. The character of the residents changed, to a demeanor which could only be described as ‘Stepford smilers’ during times of tragedy or angst, to ragged and depressed during the economic boom-times that followed. Down on the surface of the moon, Shipton Terminal reported similar stigma, as well as tremors from deep underground, on a moon with no recorded seismic or tectonic activity.
Nobody spoke openly about these things. Nobody wanted to be seen as a crazed conspiracy theorist or a lunatic, least of all Governor Weston. The political bloc arranged by commander Iron was still there, and if they saw any sign of mental unfitness, or breach of decorum in him, they might try to marginalize him or oust him entirely. People tried to rationalize a reason for the oddness: bad food cartridges, something in the water supply, outgassing fumaroles, or starship exhaust. All of these acts had perfectly reasonable and explainable causes, did they not?
Then, about a year after he departed, Lord Iron returned, and the anomalies seemed to cease almost overnight.
Now, Governor Weston was walking through the tight corridors and back-rooms of The Crossroads club. He eventually found the room he was looking for. There was no biometric security key on this door, just a simple handle which he opened. He strode in, holding his head high, and presented himself in the proper decorum of an Imperial Leader.
Sitting at a large carved wooden desk was none other than Lord Iron himself. He looked at Weston with his singular red cyclopean 'eye' that was centered on the face of his helmet. After adjusting some papers with his gloved hands, he motioned for the Governor to enter.
“Welcome, Your Honor. I hope you’re not too off put by our choice of venue. I try to avoid particularly grandiose accommodations.” Iron spoke, his voice deep and mechanical, filtered through whatever voice modulation was in his helmet.
“The Pleasure is mine, Lord Iron. These Accommodations are… certainly very quaint. I suppose I understand your desire for modesty in these affairs.” Weston stood with his arms behind his back. He was attempting to project an image of stern authority, while constantly looking around for anything awry. One could never be too careful in his position. But the room was cramped and spartan. Still, there was an air of tension.
“Do not feel the need to stand there. Please have a seat. A drink, your Honor?” Iron asked, presenting a bottle of Lavian Brandy from under his desk.
“Ahh, I welcome the gesture, but no thank you. I don’t drink.” Weston responded. He was a notorious teetotaler, after all. Yet another reason being seen in this establishment was a bit out of his comfort zone. However, he did take a seat at the desk across from the faceless commander before him, as he suspected there was some politics to be conducted today.
“As you wish.” Iron returned the bottle to it’s position under the desk. “So, to business. My time in Darkwater Assembly’s employ is at an end, so now it seems I am back to my previous position here on Borrego. With your most graceful blessing, my friend.”
“Indeed. I certainly hope your time in their service was… eventful.” The Governor responded.
“Eventful? No. Productive? Eminently. In my time among their service, I was able to acquire access to the Great Archives of the Hattori Clan. Lord Himura was most accommodating in that regard.”
“Was he? He is a bit crass for my liking. Might I ask, what was your position within Darkwater? If your trip was uneventful, what were you doing with your time?” Weston raised an eyebrow.
“[color=ccccff]Politics. Data mining. Information brokering. The Data-package I brought back with me has already been delivered to your offices. I am sure it will give your analysts some good economic forecasts to keep the station’s boom-times going. I must congratulate you on your success in that regard.[/color]” Iron spoke. The robotized voice providing little emotion or inflection.
“Indeed, we have had record prosperity across the system, even though it hasn’t been entirely smooth sailing. Though I must inquire , what does this have to do with our meeting here? I do have other tasks on my agenda I need to see. so we must keep this brief…” Weston spoke, with that typical half-dismissive attitude that was typical for mid-rank Imperial politicians in non-protocol situations.
“Weston. I can see that you are tense. You still don’t entirely trust me, do you?” Iron leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and interlocking his fingers.
The Governor was an open book. There were subtleties in his voice and body language that spoke volumes. He was in a difficult position. Exactly where Iron needed the Governor to be. Iron continued, “If you think I am plotting a coup against you, or attempting to do anything else to your office, you are mistaken. Everything I have done for you and the Patron’s Principals organization is to ensure that we have a good working relationship. I have brought in money, signed agreements, and spilled blood in your service. I have done all that you have asked of me. And now, I need to ask something of you.”
“Balderdash! Why would you think that I would be paranoid of such things? I trust you. I trust your capabilities. I merely am not sure what you’re getting at here. What is this all about?” Weston was quick to go on the defensive.
“It is about this.” Iron spoke, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a square object, wrapped in a silk cloth and tied with a red string, sliding it across the table to Weston’s hands.
The Governor looked at it, puzzled. He felt its weight, and then proceeded to untie the string and open it. It was a book, written in a language which he could not understand. Old Japanese to be precise. The title read “東方求聞史紀-第10版”. While Weston could not understand what it meant, the artisanship of the symbols was not lost on him. This was something hand written by an expert at their craft.
“A book? What does it say? What does it have to do with anything?” the Governor hesitantly asked.
“Everything.” Iron took the book back, opening it, and thumbing through its pages. “My research has taken me through the earliest histories of the Empire. The Colonization of Achenar, the foundation of the various lords and dynasties. The war against the Federation. But the further you go back, the more discrepancies, mysteries, and oddities there are. Then I found this.
This tome you see before is a shard of something ancient. Pre-Empire. Pre-Federation. Pre-Everything.“
“Really?” Weston shrugged, it all seemed like a pointless curiosity to him. “What is the book even about? And, let me be frank, why does it matter to me?”
“It is the last chronicle of a shattered land. At least, the last one we know of. Previous editions were mere reference guides, but this one… is a roadmap. To other shards and relics. Things of an... occult nature, you see.”
“Occult? What nonsense is this…”
“You had the dreams, Mr. Glover. You know it isn’t entirely nonsense.”
The color drained from Weston’s face. He spoke to exactly one person about those dreams. Which hints that either Iron has gotten access to his physician’s records, or…
“There are things out there that we do not understand, Mr. Glover. Old mysteries. Dead civilizations. Disappeared generation ships. Thargoids. And other... more ancient things. This book tacitly proves there is some reality to what I speak of. People have searched for it. The Miskatonic Expedition went across the galaxy seeking clues, but they were looking in the wrong places. We should not be looking outward, Mr. Weston. We should be looking inward. That is precisely what I intend to do.”
Iron did not move, but his robotic tone grew all the more serious. “I am going to be gathering shards, researching mysteries, and piecing together what brought us here. In addition to that, I am going to bring together a team of like-minded commanders to do so. I would like to use this station as my base of operations to do so, in perpetuity.”
Weston attempted to hide his shock and narrowed his eyes. “So let me get this straight: you want to use my station to start a paranormal research agency? You realize you will be laughed at and ridiculed by your peers! I would prefer not to be involved in such a venture.”
“I understand your concerns, Mr. Glover. This is not a cup of tea for every palate. But I have done what I have done, and I have not been laughed at. People tend to take things more seriously when they have empirical evidence. Which is what we have right here.
Of course, should you choose not to accept my proposal, I will simply take my business elsewhere. There are surely more open-minded governors and station-masters who would welcome a diversion from the doom and gloom of the universe today.”
If he could see Iron’s face, he could imagine a smug, wry grin appearing. He spoke of occult and arcane mysteries. He spoke of the dreams. Were he to depart, and the stigma to return…?
“I will take it under consideration, but I will need some time in order to…”
“Time is being wasted, Mr. Glover. With all due respect, governor, I would prefer we made a deal here and now. In addition, I will need it in writing.” Iron spoke, gesturing to a pen and a piece of fine vellum with the terms of a contract sitting on the desk.
Weston blinked. Were those there the whole time?
“I… well then. I suppose there is no harm in letting you do your little hobby and use my station. Perhaps it would benefit the tourist trade if it becomes popular? However, if it starts to reflect poorly...”
“If it reflects poorly you can make yourself distant. Do this for me, Mr. Glover, and I will do great things for you. Make this covenant with me, and I will ensure the safety, prosperity, and fortunes of this station and this solar system using every resource available to me. In return I ask for your loyalty and support on my ventures. Remember, what I have already done for you up to this point and the lengths that I have gone."
“Do we have a deal?”
There was a tense pause. Governor Weston felt something telling him not to do this. But the way the mechanized voice spoke felt compelling. And he was ever mindful of the networks that Iron had been putting together.
And so, the Governor put pen to paper, and willfully signed away his soul.
“We have a deal.” He replied, and the two exchanged a handshake.
“Splendid, my friend, Splendid! It may take some time before our agreement bears fruit, but in due course I am sure we will make a great many discoveries. Discoveries we will share the glory of in equal measure. You made the right choice.” Iron’s modulated voice seemed uncharacteristically upbeat, for what little inflection it provided.
“I certainly hope that is so.” Weston spoke, looking once again at that innocuous piece of paper sitting on the desk. The blood-red ink taking on a more ominous hue the longer he gazed at it.
And something was telling him that piece of Vellum wasn’t made of calf-skin.