NOVEL NEXT Chapter 68: Things Rarely Go to Plan
"I'll pay you fairly for any Tzevtao you source, but it's only natural to discount the going rate," Kanogg explained.
There were obvious advantages to this exchange. Considering that it would vastly streamline the experience of selling Incunabula, Betelgeuse supposed he could even accept a discount as large as 20%.
"Ten percent at the max. I won't go lower than that," Betelgeuse threw out, tuning his voice so that the articulation of his position seemed trenchant and forceful and non-negotiable.
"Fine. Take it," Kanogg relented, to Betelgeuse' surprise. Maybe she was tired of bargaining. He held out his palm and let the woman drop the dinky interface-chip into the palm of his hand. Then he brought his palm up to his eye to scrutinize the object.
It looked like a black plastic tab out of which had been carved geometric shapes fashioned out of pure gold. To one end of the tab was streaks of chrome-colored material which Betelgeuse assumed was the CIIO interface which would permit the exchange of data between the interface-chip and his transceiver.
The interface-chip seemed to have been specifically designed to appear like a simple storage-chip. It was a nondescript little object and there was nothing on it that would clearly suggest its function. Needless to say, Betelgeuse didn't feel entirely comfortable with interfacing an alien device of questionable provenance with his transceiver.
"Can you please get it over with?" Kanogg said, wagging her finger impatiently at him. "I got better things to do than lace it with a fucking virus, okay—and I was just using it."
"Hrnh. A man must be permitted his distrust."
"Distrust, is it now? You are reminding me of the eunuchs who cannot decide on anything if it involves the slightest risk."
Betelgeuse shrugged. Kanogg was a fool if she really thought that, for even a eunuch had his tools. But as regards risk she was, perhaps, right. He currently possessed all of 63.13 Credits in his digiwallet, with a further 50 Credits to be credited to him as salary tomorrow. Not exactly big money.
And as for his INC Marketplace trading account—he'd funded it with the minimum maintenance balance of 50 Credits and, if the relevant 1050 Chit had already been released from escrow, that would make a total of 200 Credits available for his withdrawal.
All in all, small numbers meant small risk. It wasn't like he was taking on leverage or anything. In the worst case scenario, Kanogg would steal his INC Marketplace account and clean out the money. As for his digiwallet, it was linked to his military account—which meant that Kanogg would be screwing herself if she stole from it, given that all its transactions were traceable by the TAF administration. All Betelgeuse needed to do would be to submit an official complaint through Cacliocos and Kanogg's location and activities would be compromised.
Life is imperfect. Truth is, I don't have much choice, since I have no clue where to source for a device like this.
Life is also luck and work. Good fortune has given me this opportunity to grasp, and so I will grasp it tightly—and there are very few principles as certain as the fact that things and relationships are made to be possessed and to be used as bargaining chips in this game the market has made.
The time will come when I will find this sly woman vulnerable. That will be the time to strike, to dictate my terms and to break her and to extract the maximum value I can from whatever will be left.
As for the possibility that this device may introduce a virus or tracker, the best thing I can do to limit its potential damage is to spend as much of the money as I can on items that can augment my abilities. Only once I have the ability to generate significant cashflow will I be able to pay for greater security.
And given that my digiwallet is more secure than my INC Marketplace trading account, I should make it a practice to withdraw money from my trading account and to only fund it as required.
With these thoughts in mind, Betelgeuse thumbed the interface-chip against his palm—felt its solidity, felt the raised micro-cliffs lasered into its surface chafe against his fingerprint ridges—and then picked it up with his other hand. Holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger, he pushed it carefully into his transceiver's CIIO interface-slot and heard a soft click as the spring-loaded clasp-mechanism locked the chip in place.
He rebooted his transceiver and then flicked at his transceiver-screen and found that several new items had appeared in his Applets-Bucket. There, he tapped on what he supposed was the Intraweb-trawler and was taken to a facility where he could input the relevant site-addressed.
"Hurry up!" Kanogg snapped, her voice modulating higher in some semblance of urgency. "I need to be out of here very soon, Mr. Beetlejuice. It is imperative."
Betelgeuse glanced at Kanogg, his eyes narrowing dangerously to recognize in her blue pupils the possibility—the hint—of further violence. He tensed his body, readying himself for what might have to be done.
She locked gazes with him—observed his willingness to continue the fight and, if necessary, to kill—and felt her imperiousness melt away into impotent frustration.
'Kanogg might be a Nookster,' he thought, realizing that that was most likely why she had come alone. The number of Incunabula she had grafted upon herself suggested that she wielded considerable resources, and he reckoned such a person likely to have bodyguards. And yet, here she was, isolated. She had come alone to escape detection, Betelgeuse assumed, and it was also why she had to leave so quickly—to escape the main city before curfew hit.
He returned his attention to his transceiver screen and accessed his INC Marketplace account. Satellite reception was good. Everything worked perfectly. He verified that his account showed the following balances:
50 CREDITS
1050 CHIT
Noting that the Saltillan currency had not been automatically converted to credits, he did a cursory check of the current estimated-price for uHRM.0, confirming that estimated-prices had ticked down to 1050 Chit and then ticked upward to 1052 Chit and then 1053 Chit over the course of the past ten minutes.
Satisfied, he nodded to himself and said: "Verified. The money is in my account."
"Finally," Kanogg exhaled, groaning exasperatedly. "I can't be staying any longer Mr. Beetlejuice, but it's been a pleasure doing business."
"... Likewise," Betelgeuse said, permitting himself another over-wide, chimpanzee smile. "And I owe you my deep gratitude for this facility," he continued, indicating his transceiver, "I'll drop you a message if I find anything."
"You do that… you do that…" Kanogg muttered, scrunching up her pretty face and backing away slowly and bringing out her dented mask from somewhere within the folds of her trench coat.
She fitted it over her face with a nigh imperceptible click, and then she turned and sped away, slamming into the stairwell entrance and blasting it inward to impact upon the wall on the opposite side.
The door swung back amidst the dissipating profusion of sound and she was gone, taking her broad figure and third arm and myriad Incunabula away with her.
He stood there, alone now, contemplating the back-and-forth moan of creaking hinges, pricking his ears at those tortuous echoes and thinking to himself that he ought to find some water somewhere before he died of dehydration.
It was easy to find an establishment hawking standard 1-liter cans of water, given that none of the Agave S-2 seemed in any rush to close shop—they were exempt from curfew, apparently—and he paid the 1.25 Chit (converted to about 0.18 Credits, leaving his digiwallet with 62.95 Credits), but otherwise refrained from responding in any way to the myriad importunate touts soliciting for customers to sample their "galactic Dalcha" at the "low, low price" of 5 Chit per portion.
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He wasn't about to spend money on food when he could get by at the Barracks' canteen, and so, mindful of the time, he made his way quickly to the S-2 Station and boarded the next train, half-empty water-can in hand.
'Been a long day. Who woulda thunk I'd finish it with the Intraweb in my pocket,' he thought, and he spent the trip staring at nothing and thinking about how he would source for more Incunabula. All he could think of doing was to find out more about where the Incunabula of dead people were sent. Maybe he would stumble on a way to pilfer those without being caught.
He reached Milhub (1.00 Credit deducted as train fare, making 61.95 Credits left in his digiwallet) without incident and then made straight for the Barracks longhouse-canteen, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dinner was rice and some kind of canned legumes served in gravy. Simple fare, but appetizing enough after a difficult day. And anyway he had no time to pay any attention to the food. He had unlimited access to information sitting on his wrist—what else could he ask for?
The first thing he attempted to do was to access the menu of banned sites—the same one he'd paid for at Bazza's Kafay. He input the menu address and, unsurprisingly, his transceiver threw up an error page, and he supposed the 'menu' was accessible only from Bazza's local area network.
He thought for a while, spooning salted beans into his mouth and chewing absentmindedly. What was he searching for, anyway?
I need to augment my ability to use and shield against the compulsion matrix. That should take priority for now. Kanogg had a bunch of grafts—that's as good a place to start as any. I must find a facility for grafting additional Incunabula.
He'd gone halfway through his beans when he remembered that his meal included rice as well. As he chewed slowly through those starchy grains, he recalled seeing a variety of shady freelancers advertising their services on commicube. Someone there would be willing to graft an Incunabulum onto his brain-meridian, he reckoned.
There's definitely a brain-tekkie or two I could find. I should query them some on the pros and cons of grafting, maybe get a better idea of what it entails before I commit.
The commicube site-address was easy enough to recall; he was satisfied to see his transceiver's Intraweb-trawler load the site without much issue, although it felt a little cramped to browse through it on the small transceiver-screen. After several minutes of trawling through what seemed like a thousand posts on the latest hot news—Slutty Sloane's Ultimatum to the Workers of Saltilla, as the top trending post was titled—he found a handful of posts listing for 'neurological services'.
'Services starting from as low as 300 Credits', went the most promising (although by far not the lowest-priced) advertisement, and it urged prospective customers to call up for more specific enquiries.
But Betelgeuse couldn't find a transceiver address he could call, and he was forced to send a private message to the listing freelancer—commicube username picopico—inquiring after the relevant address that he could contact. Then he returned to his meal and swallowed the remainder of his unpalatably cold rice-bean concoction within four or five spoonfuls, wondering to himself if he'd ever taste gumbo again.
"I's just gettin' used to all this loafing around," Douglas groaned, scratching his stomach and staring up at the ceiling. "It really ain't that bad in the Barracks…"
"Too bad," Voke remarked insouciantly, sitting at the edge of his bed and resting his right ankle upon his left knee. He was leafing through a small, grey booklet which Betelgeuse recognized as the TAF-issued Compilation of Deployment Prayers, but didn't seem to be too focused on his reading. "I much rather we could leave the place instead of being stuck in the Infirmary all day, though. Glad we don't have to go back there tomorrow."
"Shit, Infirmary's aight as long as I can skip tomorrow's patrol… I mean, we don't got a boss anymore 'cos the Teat's still coma-ed, so why can't we just, like, chill," Douglas drawled, turning his head so that his face was angled across Betelgeuse' bed to Voke.
And Voke looked up from his booklet and regarded Betelgeuse, who was sitting up against the metal grille that passed for their beds' headboard and flicking lazily at his transceiver-screen.
"So, B.T., had fun today?" Voke asked.
"... There was no fun," Betelgeuse returned flatly. "I was called in by the Deputy Marshal for official business."
"Oh, that Mentzer woman," Voke said, hanging his head. "They treat us like peons, man. We need better protection, they need to protect our rights. Like the support guys, y'know—I was talking to Entuban today at the Infirmary and he tells me they get their off-days protected, like normal frigging human beings…"
Douglas inhaled loudly, then exhaled a noisy and draggy moan. He flailed madly, bringing his limb and half-limb down beside him to pound frustratedly at his foam bed. He stopped and moaned again. He rested the back of his right hand upon his forehead and arched his back lordotically upon his bed. Pretending to suffer, truly suffering.
"Shyiiiieeeet…" he chuntered, "I'm a cripple, man, a crippleman! They don't pay me enough to get any fancy prosthetics—and I'm stuck! Stuck, stuck, stuck! It costs like four Gs of CHIT to get a two-bedroom in the Talonne my mans—ain't no way we ever gon' get outta here out our salary…"
"... Not that I'd ever wanna stay here," Betelgeuse heard Voke mumble under his breath, but Douglas didn't seem to hear.
And as Douglas flattened his back upon the bed, he lowered his hand and turned his head again to regard Betelgeuse.
"Foshizzle Mr. Ballsman, Mr. Testy-kles the testicular! You gotta get me into support coy, man, you gotta save me!"
"I can't do anything," Betelgeuse said, refusing to look up from his transceiver-screen.
"Come ooooon. You got Cacky-Cackster in the palm of your hands, Testykles! You're like the apple of his eye, the bee's knees, the shiffle shuffler—"
"You're noisening, Downie Dougie," Voke complained out loud, stuffing his fingers into his ears. "It's way too late for this shit ja? Ja ja? Medicae said 'seven hours of uninterrupted rest'. We oughta wind down right about now."
"I say fuck'em, fuck'em! I'll get all the rest I need once I get to support coy! O great and ballsticulous Ballsman! Save me, I beg of you!"
Voke muttered something under his breath and stuffed his booklet under his pillow and flopped down sideways onto his bed.
Betelgeuse looked up at Douglas, saw his pleading face, and furrowed his brows, wondering if this might not be yet another opportunity in disguise. According to the TAF Green Book, a unit couldn't be fielded at less than 50% strength, save for in exceptional circumstances. With Thete incapacitated and Frederica KIA, getting Douglas a support company posting might successfully render their unit ineffective for deployment.
It would mean less risk. It would mean more time spent on accumulating resources. It would mean more time to plan his escape.
"I guess it couldn't hurt to bring this up with the Captain," Betelgeuse said, finally, his words triggering a fervid whooping from Douglas, who had launched himself to his feet atop his bed's steel footboard.
"Yeah! You are THE man, Ballsy! Getcho ass up Mr. Cock and pray to GOD that nothing too crazy happens before…"
Betelgeuse fell into a difficult sleep filled with big-headed bovines and terrible fairies whose faces were breathtakingly beautiful but whose bodies were sinewy and bulging with tanned, striated muscles.
There were forests in his dreams that covered lands stretching further than the length of the void, forests of dead trees that shed milk in place of leaves and which seemed to masturbate every time he got close to them (the specifics of this were a bit iffy; how could a tree masturbate, was the obvious question he didn't think to ask himself).
Bodies fell to the sky which turned to headless chickens and slavering wolves and hovering Frederica-ghosts which spewed bitter, toxic invective at him. Her words became poisons that seeped into and collapsed the ground, and then he was falling, falling—until he fell straight into his bed, wide awake, wide awake and hearing, in his soul, a billion blaring sounds tearing him apart from the inside.
He blinked and realized the siren-sounds were coming from outside. It was the Saltilla Barracks alarm system.
He jumped off his bed to see Douglas and Voke already at the window, jabbering to each other excitedly. Betelgeuse rushed forward, his eyes blurred and bleary, and he squeezed in between the other two.
He pressed his head up to the window just in time to see the brilliant explosion, and then a rush of sound that made even the sirens falter. A structure, far in the distance and sandwiched between the Saltillan Obelisks, was blazing brightly in the night and sending thick gouts of smog into the air.
Betelgeuse took a step backward and turned on his heels, and he tapped at his transceiver-screen as quickly as he could, navigating to the INC Marketplace and bringing up the price ticker for uHRM.0.
His mood sank to see the current estimated-price:
2118 CHIT
That amounted to an almost 50% appreciation compared to the price he had sold the Hollow Incunabulum to Kanogg, if he counted the extra 400 Chit he was able to squeeze from her. And it wasn't just uHRM.0. Every grade and quality of Inc was trading for vastly greater prices, with the craziest increases—tripling, quadrupling, even quintupling—obtaining in the vastly more liquid verified markets, all of it catalyzed by the destruction he had just personally witnessed.
'And there are clowns who say timing doesn't matter,' he thought, thinking back to the financial gurus that plagued the Earth-Intraweb and cursing softly and bitterly under his breath.