Ep.#12 - A Price Too High (The Frontiers Saga - Part 2: Rogue Castes)

by Ryk Brown

  For Marcus, it had been to escape the mistakes of his youth. He had fallen in with the wrong crowd at an early age and had done things he was not proud of. He had believed in the goals of the Golaran Rebels, but, in the end, they had been just another band of terrorists using false narratives of injustice, inequality, and oppression to recruit the young, the naive, and the idealistic dreamers, promising utopias that could never be delivered. Marcus had bought it hook, line, and sinker, and it had gotten him killed more than once…just not dead.

  Few could safely walk the shadowy maze that was the Jungle. One needed to have the look that told the many predators hiding in those shadows that they were not easy targets and should be avoided. Marcus had that look about him most of the time, even when he was happy, but especially when he was drunk. Therefore, he stopped by one of the many saloons, near the entrance to the Jungle, in order to chemically enhance his menacing expression.

  Marcus rather enjoyed the frightened expressions he elicited from first-time visitors crossing his path. Even a few of the regulars shot him a double-take, unsure if he was one of them and, therefore, should not be considered prey. This game was yet another reason this part of Sanctuary was such a moniker.

  Like every person who entered the Jungle—vendors and patrons alike—Marcus was followed by not only station security cameras, but by the eyes of watchers, hired by the various capi who ruled the lower levels. He noticed his watcher within minutes of leaving the saloon. They were generally skinny, unhealthy-looking, young men and women, most of whom had somehow found themselves indebted to a capi. What made them so easy to spot was the mere fact that had they themselves been patrons, they would have had someone watching them, more likely they would already be in the sights of one of the Jungle’s many predators—worse yet, already a victim.

  Marcus’s watcher was average at best; a teenager who was jittery and always looking about, as if she expected some creature to jump out at her at any moment—which wasn’t far from the truth. On more than one occasion, the girl had let herself be distracted, forcing Marcus to wait for her to catch up. If he approached a Jungle-rep for a major dealer without a watcher, he likely wouldn’t get the time of day from them. Worse yet, he might get the business-end of a pug.

  Any arms dealers who could move large orders were often difficult to spot. Their booths looked like any other—laden with all sorts of weapons. From pop-guns, which were more noise than sting, to boomers that could bring down a building with a single shot. Of course, all of them had been properly and permanently disabled by station personnel upon arrival. Since the Jaton incident, all weapons were also fitted with a transponder, which immediately alerted station security if that device left its designated display or storage area.

  The trick to spotting the real muscle was the location of their booths. All were directly in front of, or steps away from, a legit, unrelated business like a dunga shop, barrot lounge, or brothel. This allowed private conversations, involving large-scale customers, to be conducted within the confines of these businesses, away from the prying eyes and ears of station security, as well as the competition.

  Although it had been a long time since Marcus had trolled the Jungle on a regular basis, he had been there a few times since his most recent arrival on Sanctuary. He had told Neli it was for business purposes; that he needed to scout the wares for the Alliance, just in case some unusual weapon, not available on the upper levels, was to be found. Mostly, that had been true. Despite his new, almost-legal life, and the comforts that it brought him, at times, he still longed for the adventure and adrenaline rush that a visit to the Jungle provided.

  Marcus had chosen to make his first pitch to a dealer who was only displaying the basics, and not the military-grade stuff. Such vendors were usually eager to service large orders because one deal could sustain them for months. Theirs was a hard lot, as their customers were usually looking for a single weapon, and an inexpensive one at that. Unfortunately, for that very reason, most of them did not have the connections necessary to move a few thousand weapons, although several of them tried to convince him otherwise. Luckily, Marcus could smell the bullshit before it even left their mouths.

  Eventually, his wanderings landed him at a booth displaying the weaponry he sought, as well as several pieces that, while more appropriate for heavy assault, might also be of use. He asked the scruffy-looking man behind the displays the usual questions, testing his knowledge and salesmanship, both of which were sorely lacking. In fact, the man seemed downright uninterested in selling anything to Marcus at all.

  “You know, seein’ as how no one’s even givin’ your shit a second look, you might want to seem a bit more interested in those who do,” Marcus finally told the man.

  “Piss off, old man.”

  “Nice sales tactic,” Marcus replied, undaunted.

  “How about fuck off?” the younger man suggested. “That work better for you?”

  Marcus laughed. “Good thing there’s a big-ass table between us.”

  The younger man stared at Marcus for a moment, and then looked over at one of the men standing to the left side of the booth. “Tell you what, pops, you leave now, and I’ll let you live. Hell, I might even let you keep all your big, fat, fucking fingers.”

  “And here I was gonna buy a few thousand of these,” Marcus replied, picking up one of the display weapons. His eyes followed the man moving around the left side of the table, while still staring at the scruffy, smart-ass smiling at him from behind it.

  “I believe you were asked politely to leave,” the second man growled as he approached Marcus from the left.

  “Yeah, he asked me to leave,” Marcus conceded, “but there weren’t nothin’ polite about it.” Marcus turned to stare the second man in the eyes. “In fact, it was downright rude, if you ask me.”

  “No one was asking you,” the second man argued, staring right back. “We were telling you…to leave…now. Is that clear enough for you?”

  Marcus turned to face the second man, their gazes still locked. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Marcus stated confidently. “The only person here that’s goin’ anywhere is you, and that’s two fucking steps back while your legs still work. Is that clear enough for you?”

  The second man stared at Marcus for a moment, then smiled and glanced back at the scruffy guy behind the table. “I like this old fart. He’s got guts.”

  “Or he’s stupid,” his cohort stated, signaling the watcher who was standing behind Marcus, across the corridor.

  The skinny, young woman hurried over, moving around Marcus and the second man as they continued to stare at each other. She went up to the scruffy man behind the table and whispered something to him, causing him to pick up his comm-unit from the table behind him and place a call.

  “Yeah?” the man on the comm-unit asked.

  “It’s Bose. We’ve got a live one out here.”

  “How live?”

  “Live enough.”

  After a moment, the man on the comm-unit replied, “Send him back.”

  The scruffy man ended the call, setting the comm-unit back on the table behind him. “I guess you get to keep your fingers, pops.”

  The second man, standing nose to nose with Marcus, smiled and stepped aside.

  “Lucky me,” Marcus said, moving past the man and heading for the seedy-looking business behind, and to the left of, the booth.

  “Good luck, old man,” the scruffy-looking man said as he passed. “You’re gonna need it.”

  * * *

  General Telles sat in his office in Orswella’s capitol building, studying the footage of the attack in the common markets only hours ago.

  “I have a preliminary report on casualties,” Commander Kellen announced as he entered the room.

  “How many?”

  “Five thousand three hundred and eighty-seven dead; three thousand eight hundred wounded. Th
e numbers are approximate and are expected to grow.”

  “Have we confirmed the identity of the bomber?” the general asked.

  “He does not exist in the Orswellan population registry,” the commander replied. “We can only assume he was Dusahn, at this point, based on his final words.”

  “And the bomb?”

  “The blast signature suggests multiple devices, all detonated simultaneously. Blast residue in various places shows traces of kentite.”

  “Which is used in Dusahn warheads,” the general surmised. “There was no way for them to know that the reopening of the markets would draw such a crowd. We didn’t even know about the musicians until an hour before they opened.”

  “Which suggests the bombs were placed by more than one person, and that there is a supply of them on hand.”

  “An ample supply,” General Telles added. “Otherwise, they wouldn’t waste them on crowds of people; they’d use them against infrastructure.”

  “Unless they’re stupid,” Commander Kellen joked.

  “We must assume they are following a plan, of sorts. If it’s not designated targets, then there’s a list of suggested target types.”

  “They may even have explosive devices pre-planted. We should fully scan all critical infrastructure targets, as well as places where large numbers of people regularly gather.”

  “Let’s start with the power plants, water treatment facilities, and communications,” General Telles instructed. “After that, we go to the hospitals. I fear we will need them.”

  * * *

  Marcus stepped through the door and was immediately surprised. Instead of the usual dingy, poorly lit, foul-smelling shop, selling all manner of vices, he found an elegant, well-adorned, clean lobby that looked more like a hotel than a seedy front for an enterprise of questionable legality.

  “How can I help you, sir?” the well-dressed, young man at the reception desk asked politely.

  Marcus squinted a moment, his mouth twisting unnaturally as he tried to make sense of things. “Uh, I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” he admitted, cautiously approaching the counter. “I was looking to buy…uh…” Marcus lowered his voice to a near whisper before continuing, “…guns…lots of them?”

  The young man smiled, holding back his laughter. “You don’t have to whisper, sir. There is nothing illegal about selling guns on Sanctuary.”

  “I feel underdressed,” Marcus admitted.

  “Not at all, sir. Name?”

  “Uh…Taggart. Marcus Taggart.”

  “If you’ll make yourself comfortable, Mister Taggart, Mister Ruef will be with you shortly. Feel free to help yourself to something at the courtesy bar.”

  “Over there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Right.” Marcus straightened his jacket and walked over to the waiting area, pausing to pick up a pastry at the courtesy bar on his way. Moments after wolfing down the treat in a single bite, a well-dressed, young man with perfect hair appeared from a hidden door.

  “Mister Taggart?”

  Marcus stood, again straightening his jacket. “That’s me.”

  “If you’ll come this way, sir.”

  Marcus headed over to the previously hidden doorway, following the man into the corridor. “Where are we going?”

  “All volume purchases are handled by the head of our organization,” the man explained as he led Marcus down the hallway and around the corner.

  Once around the corner, the man stepped aside, taking position alongside a door, which he opened. “If you will please wait in here, Mister Koren will be with you shortly.”

  Marcus stepped cautiously through the doorway, into another well-appointed room. There was a round table surrounded by six chairs, and a sim-window covering an entire wall. Marcus walked around the table, pausing to pick up the remote for the sim-window, flipping through several simulation views before finally settling on a downtown skyline of some unknown city. He continued wandering around the room, checking two other doors and finding them locked. Finally, he returned to the table and took a seat.

  Marcus felt tired, more tired than usual, and he wondered if the few drinks he had consumed, prior to beginning his exploration of the Jungle, had been a mistake. It had been weeks since he had anything stronger than a glass of ale with lunch, and he was not as young as he had once been. Then again, he had been a hard drinker most of his life and doubted that a few watered-down cocktails would do him in. It had been a long couple of days with Miri awakening, Nathan’s visit, and their meeting with Gunwy. Add to that his usual lack of quality sleep, and it was no surprise that he was so tired.

  I’m gettin’ old.

  A door opened, and two men, both of whom, though well-dressed, would have looked more comfortable in the same type of attire as Marcus. Immediately, he pegged them as muscle, which was expected. Despite the respectable trappings of this particular business, gun runners were gun runners. They generally operated out of places like Sanctuary because they obtained their inventory using less-than-legal methods. While the sale of weapons might not be illegal on Sanctuary, volume sales were subject to much greater scrutiny; hence, the Jungle.

  The two men stepped to either side of the door, and a middle-aged man, also wearing a business suit, although one with a bit more flair, entered the room.

  “Mister Taggart,” the man greeted, “I trust you weren’t waiting long.”

  “Not really,” Marcus replied, trying to seem indifferent to their attempts to appear as a legitimate business. Marcus knew damned well they were just gangsters in business suits, and the scar on the side of the man’s face confirmed it. He’d seen it all before, just not with the fancy offices.

  “I am Dinesh Koren,” the man said, offering his hand, “the leader of this…organization.”

  “Marcus Taggart,” Marcus replied, rising to shake the man’s hand. “Nice place you got, here. Not sure why you need it.”

  “Just because we deal in the shadows does not mean we must live in them,” Mister Koren replied, moving to his seat at the head of the table.

  “Then you live here,” Marcus surmised.

  “It’s an expression, Mister Taggart. I’m told you wish to purchase a large number of weapons.”

  “Straight to the point,” Marcus replied. “Finally.”

  “What type of weapons?” Mister Koren asked, ignoring Marcus’s comment.

  “Sidearms, rifles, maybe some stunners. Nothing too heavy.”

  “You looking to start a revolution somewhere?”

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Marcus replied, looking indignant.

  Mister Koren placed his elbows on the table, his fingers spread wide and touching those on the opposite hand, tapping his index fingers together as he eyed Marcus with mild disapproval. “It is my business,” he corrected. “This is all my business,” he continued, spreading his arms wide as he leaned back in his chair, “and since you’re asking me to sell you enough firepower to threaten my organization, why you need the weapons is my business, as well.”

  “How about humanitarian reasons,” Marcus suggested. “Does that work for you?”

  “If you expect me to sell a few thousand guns to you, you’ll have to be more forthcoming, I’m afraid.”

  “Maybe I should take my business elsewhere,” Marcus decided, rising to depart.

  “With whom?” Mister Koren wondered. “Bezel, Owyang, the Zant brothers?” Mister Koren smiled. “One call and they’d rather slice you open than take your money.”

  Marcus shook his head as he stood. “Put an ape in a suit, and he’s still an ape.”

  “I suggest you sit back down, Mister Taggart.”

  “Or what?” Marcus asked, glaring at him.

  “Or the other two apes in suits will make you sit.”

  Marcus turned to glare
at his muscle, as well. “You think just because I’m older than the two of you fucks combined, that I’m an easy mark?”

  “Do you feel tired, Mister Taggart?” Mister Koren asked.

  Marcus turned to look at Mister Koren, who was still seated. “What?”

  “You should,” he continued. “You see, that pastry you inhaled was laced with verazentalin. It’s made from a flower that grows only on Para-Allen Four. They use it as a sleep aid, but in larger doses, it’s quite effective at taking the fight out of our guests. In fact, you might want to sit back down, before you fall down.”

  Marcus felt dizzy. “Classy,” he said, plopping back down into his chair, feeling as if his legs were about to give out. “You don’t know who the fuck you’re dealing with.”

  Mister Koren rose, confidently walking over to Marcus. “Perhaps,” he said as he leaned down, coming nose to nose with him, “but, I promise you, we will find out.”

  * * *

  To be a Ghatazhak meant many things. Above all, it meant having complete control over one’s body and mind. To Torren Rezhik, nothing exemplified this concept more than how a Ghatazhak slept: perfectly flat on one’s back, hands at their sides.

  When a Ghatazhak slept, he did so lightly. There was a balance point when sleeping. Too lightly, and the full benefit of slumber was unrealized. Too deeply, and one might not respond swiftly enough to a sudden threat. Such mental discipline while sleeping took considerable practice, but, once the balance was achieved, a Ghatazhak could sleep anywhere, in any position, and still be able to switch from slumber to combat in the blink of an eye. In the field, this gave a Ghatazhak considerable peace of mind.

  Many Ghatazhak achieved this balance in a variety of sleeping positions, even Lieutenant Rezhik. However, he preferred the supine position whenever possible, despite the fact that his fellow Ghatazhak often teased him for what they called sleeping at attention.

  When the knock came at his door, the lieutenant’s eyes popped open. In one smooth motion, he was upright, on his feet and headed for the door, reaching it before the second knock.