NOVEL NEXT Chapter 66: Prohibited Markets I
[TAF-Sunday. Some hours before the act of terrorism recorded at the Diplomatic Chambers…]
Betelgeuse shuffled his feet, kicking absentmindedly at the ground. kakPurpleGhost had directed him to come here over transceiver-message—to the top floor of a tall Agave S-2 multi-story carpark that looked out to one end of that rectangular space at the great and distant floor-to-ceiling columns that were the Saltillan Obelisks and, peeking out through the spaces between them, at the Diplomatic Chambers and the squat, toad-like Government House in front of it.
The entire floor was only sparsely utilized, perhaps only four or five beaten-up holocars for the whole level, and, at this time, entirely devoid of people.
He flashed a glance at his transceiver. It was already 1858h, three minutes before the designated meeting time, and still no sign of kakPurpleGhost. Betelgeuse checked the last message from the prospective buyer and verified that he was indeed in the correct place. S-2 Carparking Block 81.
Hrnh. At least I'm not late.
He raised his head and moistened his dry lips. He hadn't drunk any water since halfway through the controlled deposition earlier, and he was beginning to seriously regret not pilfering some of the bottles he saw perched on the front desk as he was rushing out the Central Court Mediation Chambers.
The space was lighted through with obnoxiously buzzing tube-LEDs, some of which were blinking on and off with epileptic irregularity. Betelgeuse strode across the cracked concrete flooring, coming up to the side of the safety barrier which wound the perimeter of the floor and placing his palms face-down upon that grit-dusted ledge.
He looked out over the barrier separating him from a 100-meter drop to his demise, peered downwards, then raised his head and took a deep breath, tasting a slight nip in the air. For some reason it felt colder today. Like Saltilla's climate control systems hadn't been properly calibrated.
A constellation of moving lights stretched out before him, streaked across with thin, dark voids where the stalagnatic Obelisks pierced that glitterdust carpetry through. He leaned forward, adjusting his overfull pouch so that it rested atop the ledge. He stared out into the dark city upon which night had newly fallen, observing vehicles navigate traffic jams and civilians far below him snaking down the Agave S-2.
It was TAF-Sunday, a work day in Saltilla like any other.
The work day had ended, and peak hour traffic was just reaching its heaviest volume. He watched the streams of humanity bulge and become frenetic, jostling, massy flows, watched a multitude of vehicles dam up the spilling roads, and he rested his chin on his forearm and let himself enjoy the semblance of peace, if only because he knew how fragile such moments were.
I'm high up again.
And his mind, naturally, wandered to Chrysilla, because of how high up he was but mostly because he didn't really have anything else to do. And he dredged up memories about Frederica too, because he felt guilty thinking only about Chrysilla and because he supposed there was no one else around that would remember Frederica as he did, save perhaps for her parents half a million parsecs away.
He glanced at his transceiver again. 1906h. The buyer was late. Betelgeuse settled back into his crowd watching, wondering if tardiness was grounds for scuttling the deal.
A door slammed closed behind him, blasting sound across the space. He turned sharply on his heels to see, across that gray and poorly-lit carpark, an oddly-shaped figure stalk toward him, its face covered with a featureless black mask with flat and glossy screens for eyes and perforations around its mouth area. It was wearing a long trench coat that stretched down to its girthy shins and which billowed with every step, revealing rugged brown moccasins that clomped loudly upon the concrete surface.
The first thing that Betelgeuse noted was how wide the figure was. It appeared to be about the same height as himself—a notable characteristic if the figure was a born-and-bred Desertian—and it appeared to have three arms: two arms hanging where they were supposed to be, and a longer, third arm angling up and over its shoulder, the muscular appendage ending in a hand comprising seven arachnoid index fingers sticking out of the trapezoidal piece of flesh that passed for its palm.
From Betelgeuse' vantage it looked like the third arm was attached to the creature somewhere behind its right deltoid, maybe as far back as its shoulder-blade.
Obviously a White. What could he want with another Inc?
Betelgeuse advanced, intent on meeting the trench-coated figure halfway, when he felt the familiar feeling of intangible pressure bear down upon his mind. He sensed black tendrils emanate from the figure and thread outwards to encapsulate his person, and his intuition blared a dark warning that inflamed his psyche.
Attempting the compulsion. Unsurprising. What's surprising is that he's committing to this even though I'm wearing the TAF uniform. He's expecting me to be an easy target.
The tips of Betelgeuse' mouth was just starting to curl upwards when his expression stiffened.
… Hold on. This power—it's far greater than I expected. It might be greater even than Strionis Jove's and Major Storr's!
He halted mid-step, bringing his sole down upon the floor and tensing his intentionality to muster a defense. The pressure mounted slowly, then quickly, forcing Betelgeuse' jaw into a tight clench. His vision wavered, and a splitting pain erupted in his brain.
The magnitude of pressure now far exceeded anything he had heretofore experienced. Even the incident with Salleh and the girl couldn't compare.
But by now Betelgeuse had become intimately familiar with the workings of the compulsion. He knew that its pressure ebbed and flowed with one's breathing, knew that, no matter how insurmountable it seemed at first impression, there would always be an opportunity to turn the tables so long as he endured.
That was what he was made for, after all.
The figure stopped dead in its tracks several meters away from Betelgeuse, canting its head in quite evident surprise at the resistance. Its third arm wriggled expressively. They stood like this for several minutes, butting wills, neither inclined to relent.
'It's… like trying to fight a mountain. I'll have to take him by surprise, pierce through the intentionality when he least expects it,' Betelgeuse decided, tasting the iron leech out of his gums, blinking and forcing himself to ignore the debilitating pain that was slowly blossoming throughout his brain's left hemisphere. He would have to be careful. If he misjudged and became overwhelmed by his opponent's compulsion—suffice to say losing the beaten-up Hollow Incunabulum would be the least of his worries.
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He stood to lose his own Incunabulum, which meant that even if he weren't killed then and there, the Bloam would come for him and then destroy him, and he would never see Earth again.
Betelgeuse let his own intentionality recede—slowly, sporadically—let the figure think it was gaining ground in that battle of attrition. The figure took a step forward, and in response he took a half-step backward. He made his left leg shake, permitted a desperate grimace to creep up and then usurp his own expression.
The figure was breathing hard now, mobilizing every ounce of its intentionality to overbear Betelgeuse. The tension increased, and the pain in Betelgeuse' mind escalated to breaking point, becoming almost too much to bear. His lungs were starting to fill with mucus; his leg was still shaking, but by now there was no need to pretend.
Suddenly, about a fifth of the pressure lifted off Betelgeuse' mind. The figure was wheezing, steam was rolling off its mask. Its hair—long, luscious, glossy hair—started to spike up with static. Betelgeuse took a full step forward and saw that the figure did not react.
Now!
Betelgeuse flared his own intentionality, lunging forward as he did so to catch the figure off-kilter with a single fist to its midriff. He hit something hard, the impact causing his shoulder to judder within its socket and his knuckles to explode in pain.
But the spell was broken. The pressure of compulsion lifted completely and Betelgeuse grabbed onto the figure's clothed neck to find—to his surprise—that the fabric was hot to the touch, as if the creature had been afflicted with some boiling fever.
Betelgeuse squeezed that neck as hard as he could, at the same time mustering his own mental resources and then stabbing that form through with the tendrils of his own intentionality.
He dredged up all remaining reserves of energy, felt his arms resonate with power, and he drove forward with his legs, intent on bending the figure's mind to his own will, or failing that to bring the fight onto the ground.
—and Betelgeuse froze.
What the fuck is this!?
There was not one, not two or even three Incunabula. There were maybe ten or more, most of them clearly discernible by their peculiar resonance to Betelgeuse as Ash grades and all of them assembled around the figure's torso in some sort of arcane configuration that frustrated his attempts at compulsion.
That's how he was able to magnify the power of his intentionality? It must be—there's no other explanation!
And he's using the grafts to shield himself against my compulsion!
Unwilling to relinquish the advantage, Betelgeuse gripped harder with his left hand, feeling heat bleed into his skin and earning a muffled choke for his efforts. But something was preventing him from making headway—he realized that its neck was covered in some kind of nylon sheath that was preventing him from digging his fingers into flesh.
He raised his other hand and swung it in a vicious right hook that dented the edge of that figure's polyethylene mask, sending that head bobbling violently and causing gouts of steam to be ejected from the mouth-holes.
Before he could throw a second punch, the creature's third arm whipped around and clipped Betelgeuse in the temple, forcing him to release his hold and sending him reeling backward. His brain wobbled in his skull and his world seemed to upend.
He stuck a leg out backward and arrested his momentum, and he squared up again whilst coughing and spitting phlegm, his vision reddening with battle-fury. Grunting with vicious intent, Betelgeuse lunged again—
—to catch air. The figure had bounded backward and raised its arms in front of itself, pasty-white palms outstretched.
"STOP!" the figure shouted, its voice deep, masculine and tinny.
Betelgeuse took two threatening steps forward.
"I said stop! This fight is over!"
"You started it. You wanted the fight. I will kill you if I have to," Betelgeuse seethed, saliva threading from his lip as he advanced again, his arms raised in the Edom-ursi stance.
"No, I've had enough. There's no point in continuing," the figure said.
Betelgeuse stared daggers through his tensed forearms.
"What will it be? You'll receive no money if you continue," the figure rumbled, letting its hands fall to its side. Smoke was still issuing from its mouth-holes.
"You mean to say that the deal is still on, after all this?" Betelgeuse raised his eyebrow, snorting derisively.
"It's business, fool!"
"A strange idea of business that involves you attempting to rob your counterparties. Your estate can have your money, but I will have the satisfaction of breaking your body," Betelgeuse said, narrowing his eyes. But he'd already halted his forward advance, and he stood there waiting for the figure's response.
"You're a fucking idiot. No way you can catch me. So, you want to blow this deal or not? Your choice."
Betelgeuse glared at the figure, but within his mind he was calculating, thinking about his digiwallet balance and how it would be good if he got some cash inside as soon as possible…
And anyway I don't think I could stand much more of his full power, if he wanted to continue fighting.
"Okay. The deal can continue," he said, lowering his stance and getting his breathing under control. He wiped at his face with his pixel-print sleeve, wicking away sweat and saliva, but kept his eyes peeled and his guard up.
"So you do need the money," the figure chortled. "As expected."
"That's some tone to be taking with someone who could kill you where you stand," Betelgeuse said, bluffing. "How do you know I'm not just using this as an excuse to get close?"
"Come on. I saw you set an order almost two percent off market estimated-prices," the figure returned. "You were some kind of impatient, I gathered."
"…"
"Am I right?"
"… Remove your mask. I want to see the face of the man that I'm dealing with," Betelgeuse said, jabbing his finger.
"... Is that a condition?"
"Only because of how untrustworthy you have shown yourself to be… kakPurpleGhost."
The figure shifted on its feet, then took several tentative steps closer.
"It appears you are more than you seem, Beetlejuice. I've yet to meet an Ash grade I couldn't control."
"Don't let me stop you from trying," Betelgeuse said, holding his ground. He'd regained some measure of strength by now, and his mind raced to come up with a practicable battle-plan for if kakPurpleGhost wanted to go for round 2.
He's linked his Incunabula-grafts in a lattice structure and managed to make a shield out of them. I'll have to open with a physical attack to distract him and then focus my intentionality at a single Incunabulum and attempt to break through.
It appeared to Betelgeuse that the figure wasn't entirely comfortable with fighting on both the mental and physical fronts, likely because coordinating that many Incunabula took up considerable mental bandwidth.
"… Maybe it's a Nullifier-Brace," the figure muttered to itself, inching even closer, "… no, doesn't make sense. Brand says you're Penal Legion. More than likely it's a blessing."
Betelgeuse maintained his position but made no move to retreat, readying himself for battle. Now that the figure was close enough to touch, his attention was drawn to its third, dangling hand to see that the middle phalange looked a little off, as though that one finger were made of several other fingers all fused and twisted messily together.
Severe mutation. It looks almost like a Bloam-symptom than an Incunabulum-blessing. I gotta watch out for that hook, though, it packs some power.
He observed also that the tips of every one of its seven fingers—including the weirdly-shaped one—were capped with a kind of shiny metal thimble that covered about a quarter-inch of finger.