NOVEL NEXT Chapter 57: Illegal Trade
He could not suppress the feeling, try as he might. The idea of monetizing the one thing Frederica had left behind to him left his heart feeling cold and dead. She told him that it was only for him to read. He promised her, he said it to her face, that he would keep her Incunabulum safe.
Momentary vertigo. Slippery thoughts leaked through mental pores, intruding and grasping at his ego like so much anguine coiling. A spectral ratiocination pealed mightily through the corners of his mind.
Why do you give the dead such a power to control from beyond the grave? The fact that you feel bound, this urge to do right by a dying wish, is no more special or spiritual or mystical than a function of dead labor. And remember that dead labor is used always by the living—by yourself, by someone else, by one or many.
All things are to be utilized in this long and difficult war that lies ahead of you. Can you afford the burden of carrying along specters and worthless legacies? Can you really afford all this sentimentality?
The question asked did not admit of an easy answer. But despite all this great rationality he knew that something in him did not want to submit to his own will.
'Start from the beginning. Weigh it properly,' he forced himself to think, against the authoritarian dictates of his will.
On the one hand, it appeared that the single greatest factor affecting estimated-price was whether an Incunabulum had one or multiple previous owners, and he suspected that the Hollow Incunabulum he retrieved from the Prilogia potentially fell into the 'multiple previous owners' category. Unless he could pass it off for one that had only a single previous owner, his potential proceeds would be pitifully low.
He was in a tight spot. Selling the Ash Incunabulum would generate much-needed cash, which could then be used as capital for further trades.
On the other hand, the very prospect of selling Frederica's Incunabulum… there was a feeling welling up within him that he could not ignore. As he sat there in the corner of Bazza's Raw Connections Kafay, submerged within a chaos of noise, massaging his temples and making hypothetical tallies of money and feeling almost schizophrenic, he found it impossible to quell his discomfort.
Who was he trying to convince? The mind was a machine for rationalization: "—be careful you do not indoctrinate yourself," as his father liked to say.
He could not easily part with Frederica's Incunabulum. It was as simple as that. Thinking this, he realized the decision was already made for him. He regulated his breathing and brought his pulse under control.
I'll post a sell-order on the uHIM.0 market, try to divest the White Incunabulum. Let's see how this plays out.
It took several minutes of searching the INC Marketplace to find the relevant facility to fund his account. He went with 50 Credits, the minimum balance required to unlock the ability to post a trading order, and he watched his transceiver-screen closely to see his digiwallet balance drop precipitously from 69.50 Credits to 19.50 Credits, and felt a slight twinge. He watched and waited, and within two minutes his account registered a balance of 50 Credits.
Okay, here goes.
Betelgeuse made a sell-side listing for uHIM.0 at 0.45 Chit off the last-known price (i.e., 2937 Chit), and stared at the order for several minutes but found that it was not filling. Then he reduced the price by 10 Chit and listed for 2927 Chit.
Still nothing.
He continued in this way, reducing his listing estimated-price by 10 Chit decrements every few minutes until he hit an estimated-price of 2877 Chit and saw, several seconds later, that his sell-order had filled and a message popped up to inform him that the relevant sum of money had been deducted from the buyer's account and put into escrow.
'They charged me a commission of 35.07 Chit, automatically converted to 5.01 Credits. Pretty expensive,' Betelgeuse thought, closing the message and seeing that his account balance had been reduced from 50 Credits to 44.99 Credits. Commissions on Pecorino's Information Market were usually less than a single Credit per trade. A warning message popped up on his screen some moments later, warning that his balance had dropped below the 'minimum maintenance requirement' of 50 Credits and informing him that his trading permissions would be suspended in 3 working days if the balance was not brought back up to 50 Credits.
Betelgeuse considered funding 15.01 Credits into his account (which would bring him to a trading account balance of 60.00 Credits and give him enough to pay for another trade's commission fee without risking suspension), but thinking again that it might be safer to keep some credits on his person (for whatever unexpected situation that might arise), Betelgeuse settled on depositing the minimum-required 5.01 Credits instead.
This brought his trading account balance back to 50 Credits and his digiwallet balance down to 14.49 Credits.
Another pop-up. A message, sent by the buyer over an INC Marketplace encrypted channel that had been automatically created by the order-book fill.
kakPurpleGhost (Buyer): beetlejuice?? u some Dick-loving fadster?
BeetleJooz (Seller): fuck off. trade meetup or nah?
Several minutes passed without any response from kakPurpleGhost. Betelgeuse was just thinking that the deal had been scuttled when a melodious tinkle informed him of a new message:
kakPurpleGhost (Buyer): ok
BeetleJooz (Seller): sunday night 2000h
kakPurpleGhost (Buyer): too kkakking close to curf. 1900h, off S2
BeetleJooz (Seller): S2 where?
kakPurpleGhost (Buyer): ???
BeetleJooz (Seller): I'm not from here
kakPurpleGhost did not immediately respond. Betelgeuse sat there for a few minutes, staring blankly at the blinking cursor. The environmental soundscape had passed imperceptibly from trance-dance to percussive chaos to old-style pop dross. His heartbeat synced up with the low-slow syncopations that under-beat the melodic polyphonies, and in that interim he let his perceptions slide away into a deadened dissociation that stole away from his burbling will all thought and intention.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
A tinkle. A new message.
kakPurpleGhost (Buyer): AGABE S2
Agave S-2, he probably means.
BeetleJooz (Seller): ok. sun.
BeetleJooz (Seller): will be at Agave S2
kakPurpleGhost (Buyer): shit man. ur first time?
BeetleJooz (Seller): yes. not local.
kakPurpleGhost (Buyer): give ur trc contact. we talk there
Betelgeuse provided his transceiver contact, and after several seconds a tone sounded, signaling that kakPurpleGhost had logged out.
Brrzt…
The transceiver around his wrist buzzed dully. Anonymous address. He opened the message: 'Msg when you arrive at S2. Will pass you locatn for prod verif den release $'
'Figures,' he thought, snapping off an acknowledgment.
It turned out that Betelgeuse had overstayed well into his third hour at Bazza's. After the corresponding deductions of 2.50 Credits to cover his third hour and 1.00 Credit to cover access to the 'menu', Betelgeuse exited with a total of 10.99 Credits left over in his digiwallet, 'a pitiful amount,' he mused, smirking mirthlessly to himself, wondering if he should have perhaps explored some low-value leveraged plays on the Information Market.
But if he knew anything, it was that the market rewarded those who were patient and murdered those who couldn't keep their greed in check.
He rushed forward into the deep orange afternoon, intent on keeping his scheduled appointment with Edith, went down dilapidated-looking streets and brushed past tired-looking Saltillans, and he followed the signage bolted onto as-yet unlighted streetlamps to make his way without incident to the Agave S-2 Station. Then it was onward through Saltilla's train system to alight, shortly, back at Milhub Station-Mainline. As usual, the train fare was automatically deducted from his digiwallet and he was left with a balance of 9.99 Credits.
The Detention Barracks was located at the northwest edge of the Saltilla Barracks, and as he neared it from the front he observed its looming facade and admired the grimness of its concrete walls rising gray and sheer like a cliff-face dredged by God from its ageless chthonian slumber.
From his vantage, the structure comprised three components: a middle component which consisted of an immense rectangular facade and a minaret-like protrusion that stuck up out of its top and towered over all prospective visitors; and a left and right component that flared like stone arms to either side of the middle component—massive oblong prison-wings caged in wire-fences and ringed round with snaking, rusted coils of sharply bladed concertina.
Betelgeuse tramped down the quiet street, saluting the few officers he passed as was required by TAF regulations and entering through the opaque sliding-door that served as the Detention Barracks' sole entrance.
He came into a white-lighted lobby brimming with rows upon rows of cheap polypropylene chairs. The space was sparsely populated by small and cadaverous elderlies draped like deflated bags over the uncomfortable-looking seats, and Betelgeuse thought they all looked, by their bearing, very unofficial and very civilian.
Barely affording the other visitors a second glance, Betelgeuse went down the aisle between the chairs and came before a front-desk manned by an obese male receptionist whose breaths echoed like loud gusts of wind in that closed space. Behind him were several busy-looking female clerks shuffling about and arranging large stacks of blue-colored files.
"I have an appointment," Betelgeuse said.
"What kind?" the corpulent receptionist said irritably, his voice a high-pitched, nasal whine. Betelgeuse could see moisture bead upon that Saltillan's dark and pimpled skin, and despite the air-conditioning his stuffed green uniform was soaked through and bunched between his large and rather voluptuous breasts.
Must be tough lugging around all that weight.
"I'm visiting an inmate, TAF Private Edith Pavlov, who was remanded to… allow for some investigation or other. My appointment is scheduled in about—" Betelgeuse glanced at his wrist-transceiver "—about ten minutes."
The receptionist raised his eyes to Betelgeuse' forehead and squinted, scrutinizing the penal brand as though he could discern some secret message written therein.
"Please tap in your ID," he said finally, indicating the terminal device set upon the front-desk.
'Well, why didn't you lead with that?' Betelgeuse thought, becoming irritated himself.
He raised his wrist to the terminal and heard a muffled beep and checked his transceiver's screen to confirm that the devices had interfaced. The receptionist eyed the screen before him and tapped his keyboard so lazily Betelgeuse could believe he was taking his time for no other reason than to be spiteful.
Betelgeuse sniffed, catching a whiff of something sour. He pinpointed the source of the smell after several moments—it was coming from the receptionist.
"Here's your locker key," the receptionist said after some more minutes of typing, extending his arm and dumping a shiny object onto Betelgeuse' palm. It was a key, and it fell onto his hand with a dull clink. A number tag on which was printed '9.' was attached to the key via a keyring.
"Go down the hallway on my left then turn right. You'll find the lockers there—deposit your Incunabulum and then pass through the gantries to get yourself scanned. Before I let you go, any contraband to declare?"
"... What counts as contraband?"
The receptionist snorted derisively, and Betelgeuse could swear the sour smell got stronger. It smelled like dirty socks or sweaty armpits or vinegar.
"Prohibited communications, pornographic or other obscene material, any form of liquid substance, any form of substance, liquid or otherwise which if ingested will cause altered states of mind, any kind of weapon, any kind of seditious material. That about covers it," the receptionist drawled, his low-hanging jowls wobbling jelly-like.
"... What counts as seditious material?" Betelgeuse poked, struck suddenly by a flash of curiosity.
The receptionist scrunched up his face even as his fatty cheeks sagged, and his lineaments took on an elongated, horse-like aspect. He seemed utterly flabbergasted, as if confused that someone would even think to ask him that. 'What the hell is this guy's problem?' he appeared to be thinking, but Betelgeuse stood his ground, maintaining on his face an expression that was both polite and inquisitive.
"Sir, this is not the place to ask these questions—"
"It's just for my information y'know, because…" Betelgeuse said, tracing with his index finger vague circles beside his head, interrupting the receptionist who by now seemed on the verge of hyperventilation, "... because one of my friend's an MP, and he asked me to ask you, is what I meant. He's a newbie like me, that's why he's asking me, you know, and all I could say is 'damned if I know'."
Awkward silence. The receptionist blinked. The female clerks behind him were ruffling up sheafs of paper and slotting them into the blue files and stacking them—the files—into impressive-looking stacks, and all of them appeared, from their focus, to be engaged in some kind of intensely productive activity.
"He was saying that he needs to come down here to interrogate some guy who was radicalized on the Intraweb, but he needs to bring some material and he's worried about the prohibitions," Betelgeuse added, his expression never once dropping its cool facade.
"... If he's bringing material that promulgates viewpoints at odds with Democratic and Protectorate guidance, for example feministic or seccessionistic viewpoints—I can't possibly be exhaustive—or any kind of political tract relating to such viewpoints, or any kind of… material that could be deemed sensitive, then it may count as seditious," the receptionist said. "But I don't want to be prescriptive, and if it's official business you just have to declare it beforehand and submit a copy for the Penal Authority's approval. Two to three business days. That's all. Your friend should talk to the admin side, sir."
"Thank you…" Betelgeuse nodded at the pudgy, squinting man, "that's… very helpful."
Not very helpful at all—literally everything could count as seditious material. I suppose it just gives the Protectorate a wide discretion to censor whatever they might deem problematic.
"I'll let my friend know."
And he flashed a smile at the glowering receptionist and followed the hallway down deeper into the maze of white walls, white light and white-tiled flooring.