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24


The day of the auction for Britain, I spent ping-ponging between the harbor and the yacht port, hoping to come across the boat I saw in Bobby’s pictures. Sadly, I didn’t find a vessel named Southern Star or one that was visually similar. The indigenous people whom I asked about it knew nothing. Spit Master wasn’t there either. He probably thought he had his yearly schedule filled now and was celebrating. It was an exhausting search because of my bad hip, but the positron gun in my pocket gave me hope. At least I wasn’t harmless anymore!

The atmosphere I found in both places was vibrant and colorful, as usual. Fortunately, I fit in well with my brand-new shirt, which had a pirate flag in the hands of a skeleton printed on the front. It was one of my favorites. Quite naturally, a few explosions thundered in the air while I was hanging around, contributing to Tutuila’s overall feel. It was just inevitable to witness something like that if you stayed somewhere on the island for more than an hour. On top of that, it was hot as hell in the city!

While making continuous raids back and forth, I had a chance to look at the thriving business activity happening in the capital of the former American Samoa. On the harbor, it was mostly about mona, but over there—at the yacht port—it was an actual marketplace for all kinds of illegal stuff. Between the shitty articles like my “water gun,” they were selling many gadgets that originated on Mars. In Greenland, we usually don’t have access to them because, like most other confederations, we broke ties with the colony, but here it was different. In SPC, because of the Indian nature of the place and its closeness to the docking station on Swains, nobody cared about trade moratoriums or embargoes, and smuggling flourished on a large scale.

Like every other child, I had always dreamed about being invisible as a little boy. Back then, I mainly wanted to steal into supermarkets and malls to pinch things my folks refused to buy me. Later, in puberty, my goal transformed, and I yearned to sneak into the girls’ locker room at school and see my schoolmates naked. Even nowadays, with my occupation, I would definitely benefit from such an ability in various ways, too. I’ve always thought I wouldn’t live long enough to see it possible, but as it turned out, it was possible—only not here, on Earth.

There was a Martian gadget called a stealth strip, and when you put it on your head—like a sweat headband—it produced an angle-sensitive close-distance hologram for the surrounding people. It mimicked the environment behind your back, regardless of the viewer’s position. A hundred people might circle all day around you simultaneously, and the hologram would be correct for every one of them at every given moment! Honestly, the patch between the natural and virtual was a bit rough around the edges and imperfect, but it worked sufficiently well even so. I didn’t know about supermarkets, but it was good enough for locker rooms. Unfortunately, the device was too expensive.

Another marvelous thing, which I thought impossible, was the gravity-shifting umbrella. These would create a bubble of weak antigravity force around you, making the raindrops and other small objects bounce away. I’ve always wondered why nobody cared to invent such a thing, but it turned out it was a reality on the red planet, although it protected people from dust particles, not raindrops. They actually had many other bizarre gadgets in the colony, which we don’t have down here. They have automated flying transport, houses of organic materials supporting constant temperature through perspiration, domestic androids in every household, and a human-free government and justice system. Of course, there are fewer people on Mars, which helps sustain a better standard, but the main reason is that they have close relations with the aliens. Couloongs feed them with new technologies, while down here, we only have access to what smugglers manage to sneak out.

It was all different initially—the colony was a harsh place to live in. When we settled on the red planet, the idea was that it would be life insurance for our race, and the first settlers had to suffer incredible misery and privation to make it happen. They thought it was temporary, and we, on Earth, believed so, too. Every new batch of people delivered to the original space enthusiasts not only supplies and things they couldn’t produce themselves but also hope. Regretfully, after twenty or so missions, a long line of recessions hit the Earth, and the colonizing ceased. It was a terrible moment because, up there, they had just started a reproductive program and needed more resources. At first, everybody here swore that the missions would be restored as soon as the current recession ended, but then the Great Shifting of People followed, and right after that, the Couloongs arrived, so the right moment never came. As a result of this chain of misfortunate events, they have stealth strips on Mars now and gravity-shifting umbrellas, while in contrast, we have tons of hungry migrants traveling everywhere, omnipresent misery, and never-ending global climate warming.

Incidentally, I don’t think we’ll restore our relations with the colony ever again. They believe we betrayed them, and maybe they are right. Not only did we ditch them on a hostile planet without any help, but we also ridiculed them for their complaining and nagging about stuff. Currently, a Martian is a nickname for a faultfinder here on Earth. Many people consider them a nation of loafers who have always relied on us for everything without making any effort, and when we weren’t able to help them anymore, they just switched to the aliens. Who knows where the truth lies—it’s probably somewhere between their point of view and ours—but the fact that we abandoned them remains.

I abruptly stopped and looked around because another loud explosion thundered through the harbor, startling me. It was more of a reflex; I was already getting used to it. This time, it happened pretty close—somewhere in the crowd ahead—but, as usual, none of the people around me paid attention. Everybody was too busy burning guano in primitive stoves, mixing it with water or various acids, and then calling the slurry mona and selling it. Other people were buying the shit, carrying it to Ofu, and then, after Greenspace’s refusal, bringing it back for “recipe improvement.” It was a vicious cycle that no one wanted to notice. The wretches who participated in it had no time to care about someone else’s explosions because the explosions were simply part of the game.

I turned back and headed for the yacht port because I didn’t want to watch the agony of the next masochistic idiot who mutilated his body or face. Over there, the Chinese were just selling fake guns and smuggled items, and although it wasn’t good for my wallet, it was definitely much healthier for my nerves.

Despite having my car at hand, I decided to walk because I was afraid I would lose my spot, and when I returned, I would have to stop too far. It was better to keep the vehicle ready, at least in one of the places. Besides, it was too hot to drive. Inside my Ford, it felt like an oven, and outside, I could fry eggs on the front hood. I slowly left the area, still thinking. Everything was so weird on this stupid island, and this entire ammonia fuss was ridiculous, to say the least. I couldn’t understand why Chavez needed the theatrics with his trade hub and all the people going nuts about it instead of buying the stuff from factories all over the world and cutting the bullshit. After all, he didn’t need to hide it from the authorities because it was just an ordinary business. Moreover, none of the people here could produce ammonia and sell it to him, obviously.

Another strange thing I couldn’t understand was the business of my Greenland friends on this island. They could have safely done it from home if they really wanted to sell chemical compounds! After all, Greenland is an industrial country, and there was no point in taking the risk here while messing up with Chavez. His paramilitary ex-environmental organization was far from being a reliable business partner unless, of course, it had a monopoly over the trade, which definitely wasn’t the case. Like everybody else, it used the docking station on Swains, and the pirates who owned it were politically neutral. They would shoot a railway composition in space for anyone with enough money.

Ten minutes later, deeply entrenched in my thoughts, I reached the yacht port and squeezed through the crowd. I made the usual rounds there, but nothing had changed while I had been away. Southern Star was still nowhere in sight, Spit Master was missing, and Marty Cork was too. I had just started wondering where I could hide from the severe sun when I realized there was a balance in life, and I was presented with something in return for the bad luck I had with the guys I was looking for. I glimpsed the idiot who sold me the “water gun” in my pocket. As soon as I noticed the bastard, I ran to him, furious.

“Hey, give me my money and take your fucking shit back!” I cried angrily, grabbing him by the elbow because I knew he had the habit of vanishing miraculously. His funny little toy was worth only a hundred bucks, but I didn’t want to give up my warranty claim. It was a matter of principle.

The jerk looked at me, unimpressed. He took the gun to check it out, after which he said it was my fault. I had broken the weapon, he explained, because I used it in the hot weather. Due to its firing technology, the thing had an operating range between minus ten and plus thirty degrees Celsius, and it had been forty-five on the island for days. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard his ridiculous answer. Naturally, I refused to accept his point and insisted he should give me my money back. He said he couldn’t do it because my money had already gone to his contractor, and if I wanted, he would give me an email address to claim my warranty. He lied, of course—there was no contractor. He had bought this shit on the street market in Shanghai, where all the manufacturers worked with almost no supervision by the local government.

We continued to quarrel about the purchase, and at some point, I was tempted to use my real gun to make the bastard reimburse me. Unfortunately, too many people were around us, and I had no permit for the Luger, so I restrained myself from doing it. I would only get into a complicated situation if I wasn’t careful. Eventually, the Chinese agreed to take the weapon, provided I picked something else from his stuff for the same amount of money. I chose a portable air conditioner for thirty bucks, a pair of night vision goggles for twenty, and a cell phone for fifty. Then we parted in peace.

I took my brand-new acquisitions, which would be just as functional as the gun—I was sure about that—and headed toward the exit. I was tired of all the waiting and intended to return to the harbor, take my car, and drive to Failolo. I was afraid Marty would give it another try to kill Bobby, so I hoped to catch up with the moron there. It turned out I wasn’t meant to go anywhere, however. I had just taken a few steps when I noticed Sengupta’s marine monster anchored at its usual place on the quay. Its arrival had escaped my attention, so I went to look at it.

This time, the bigshot wasn’t on board, as it seemed. I could tell because there were no guards in sight. I saw only a few dockworkers doing rounds between the vessel and the shore, and soon, they provoked a wicked idea in my mind. I was tempted to play an idiot and pretend I was a crewmember. I wanted to take a short tour of the deck and see what was going on, but unfortunately, I had no equipment to pull such an act—a stealth strip or a marine uniform, at least. The chance of doing it unnoticed was practically zero. Then an even cleverer idea occurred to me—to pretend I was a dockworker—but I had to ditch this one too because the guys who carried boxes of fruits and vegetables around probably knew one another very well.

I idled on the quay for a while, “supervising” the boat loading with provisions, but at some point, I realized I was making an easy target out of myself. During my short stay on the island, I made quite a list of acquaintances, and some of my new “friends” could easily recognize me. I quickly drew away from the yacht to prevent that and checked out my cell phone instead. When its screen turned on, I looked at it, worried and expecting it to start ringing immediately. I was terrified that Dunkin might call to ask me what I was doing so far away from home, which made me regret the time when life was much simpler and mobile phones had only a SIM card and nothing else. Back then, you simply vanished into the world when you lost or broke your device. These times were gone, however, and with them, yet another piece of our freedom. Nowadays, the moment you turn on your phone, the entire fucking world knows about it!

Fortunately, my brand-new Indian gadget remained quiet and peaceful when it verified my account and updated my status in the global system, so I sighed with relief. I put it into my pocket—now fully traceable by every policeman or villain in the world—and strolled to the harbor to fetch my car. When I got there, I hopped in, but I gave up the idea about Failolo and instead drove back to the yacht port, ready to follow anyone from the boat worth following. Meanwhile, the gangway had been pulled up, and the guys with the vegetables had disappeared. Hoping I hadn’t missed the moment, I took the air conditioner out of the box and prepared for a long wait. “At least I’m equipped for it now,” I thought while plugging it into the dashboard, impatient to see what would happen.

A few minutes passed, during which time nothing changed in the car. The gadget remained totally silent, without indicating in any way if it worked or not. No indicators flashed, no sound beeped, and the temperature inside the vehicle was still devastating. I scratched my head and started the engine to give the air conditioner more power from the car battery, but it didn’t help either. Somewhere in the depths of my mind, I knew it wasn’t the problem, and I kind of expected it.

Highly annoyed, I grabbed the thing and turned it to check the back label. The letters were too small, but I managed to verify that the voltage was correct, the polarity was okay, and everything else was fine, too. After remembering my experience with the gun, I checked the operating range, and it turned out it wasn’t okay. It read that the device was effective between seventeen and twenty-seven degrees Celsius, making me grab my head in my hands, not believing it.

“What the fuck is this?” I cried out of myself with rage. “Why would I need such a ridiculous gadget? And what idiot would manufacture it in the first place?”

I stormed out of my car, furious, and ran back to the cart of the damn Chin, thinking what I would do to him. I had a couple of really good ideas in mind, but when I got to the place, the jerk had miraculously vanished again. Only an hour after reimbursing me with a fake air conditioner in return for the fake gun he had sold me before that, the bastard was gone. I was surely going to kill him the next time I saw his fucking face around!

Totally devastated, I returned to my Ford, breathing with difficulty, and wearily placed my butt on the leather seat, where the moisture from me sitting there just a few minutes ago hadn’t even evaporated yet. In such a terrible and unfriendly environment, I opened my mouth like a fish that was drawn out of the water and waited for the sun to finish its dirty business here and go burn the opposite side of the Earth. I remained in the car for four painful hours and nearly died waiting, during which time nothing happened on the boat.

Meanwhile, I had enough time to follow the auction results for Britain on my brand-new cell phone. Exactly as I anticipated, the Chinese conglomerate won the bid. The businessmen there had too much money accumulated before the country fell apart, and they quickly put the Indian Central Bank in the corner. Right after the event, the winner shared their plans for the acquisition, and quite naturally, it turned out they wanted to resurrect old China in the heart of Europe. They said New Britain would bring the European Confederation down to its knees. The British, most of whom were tired of all the misery and chaos during the past decade, were actually excited to hear it, but, of course, there were some catches and downsides to the Chinese plan. One of them was that the money behind the conglomerate belonged to former functionaries from the Communist Party, and they insisted that New Britain should be a communist country, too. The EC was shocked to hear it, but it was too late for damage control now. The only thing the officials could do was wait to see whether other governments would decide to follow the British example and put their countries up for auction. If it happened, an entirely new world could be expected very soon.

Somewhere around nine, after discharging my cell phone completely, I decided it was time to stop my self-imposed torture in the Ford. Since there was no wireless charging station in the area and I didn’t want to connect the device to my car battery because I was afraid the “air conditioner” had drained it too much, I stepped out of the vehicle. All wet and tired, I approached the cart of the closest Indian merchant and looked through his stuff for some refreshments. I bought myself three cones of ice cream, an ice cream sandwich, an ice cream cake, two bottles of Coca-Cola, and one bottle of soda pop, and I hardly stopped myself from asking for a bucket full of cold water to sit in it. After finishing all this, I wiped my mouth, satisfied, and I had just taken a few steps back toward my car when I glanced at the boat and realized I had paid dearly for my refreshing. The gangway was down again, and someone had obviously used it, but I had missed them!

I looked anxiously around, but I saw nothing unusual. I didn’t notice the white limo or Sengupta in the area; his bodyguards were also missing. By that moment, darkness had started falling, and the yacht port quickly emptied. Very soon, the merchants took their goods away, and just their carts and a few guys stayed behind—the latter hanging around by one of the vessels twenty meters away without paying any attention to me. After ten more minutes, I nervously wondered what to do next. Still, there was no sign of life on the boat, and I cautiously approached it, pretending I was on an innocent night walk. Then I listened tensely but heard nothing coming from the two decks. The vessel was peaceful, and the passage to its lower level was gaping invitingly only a few steps from me.

I looked around again. It was a stupid idea to climb up, but I couldn’t resist the thought. Something about Sharon’s plans clearly involved Sengupta, and I needed to know what it was. Besides, the opportunity seemed perfect—the boat was obviously deserted for the night. Of course, it was weird that the gangway was down, but maybe they had it ready for tomorrow morning. Many other vessels had their gangways down, too.

I glanced around one last time and then hesitantly stepped onto the ramp, ready to jump back if needed. However, I didn’t have to because no one shouted at me or hurried to catch me. No one even saw what I did, so I quickly trotted up the gangway and climbed onto the boat before I could change my mind. Ten seconds later, the vessel became the next place on a long list of private properties I had violated lately.

As expected, the lower deck was empty. Extremely cautious, I briskly walked around, trying every door in turn, but they all happened to be locked. The access to the metal staircase leading to the second level was blocked with a gate, which was locked, too, but it was small enough to jump over, so I did it. When I climbed upstairs, I found nothing there either. It was the same story—locked doors everywhere.

Shuddering, I returned to the lower level and stopped for a few seconds, thinking. As usual, I had no idea what I was doing or looking for. Well, apparently, I was looking for trouble, but it didn’t count because it was normal for me. Besides, the nightfall was making me feel more confident. I hesitated for a while, wondering whether it was worth it to take a second tour around, but I doubted that, in the meantime, any of the doors had unlocked themselves, anxious to help me. Just then, before I headed back toward the gangway, something on the bridge caught my eye.

I noticed a sign on the arch above it, which seemed to be a logo. It consisted of three intersecting blue balls and two letters—S and T. At first, I didn’t register what was weird about it, but when I remembered the boat from Bobby’s pictures on the memory stick, I grasped it. In one of them, the sign was just the same but seen from a very sharp angle, which made it unrecognizable. Now that I saw it correctly, I realized what the letters stood for—Sengupta Transports.

After my unexpected discovery, I felt utterly lost for the zillionth time. I had just started thinking I was getting the overall picture of what was happening, and this logo here made a total mess of my head again! Did it actually mean that Bjornson was fooling around with the guy who was beloved by the moon? And if so, why did he and Sharon kiss? Or if the two bitches played together, why did Marty try to kill Bobby?

Being too confused and full of questions, I walked to the bow and cautiously looked over the railing. It was a stupid idea because the boat didn’t look like I saw in Bobby’s pictures at all. Southern Star was a cargo vessel with cranes and a deep hold for storing containers, and this one, whose name was Emilia, as it turned out, was clearly built for pleasure. On the lower level was an entire nightclub with numerous cocktail lounges, video screens, sound systems, a dance floor, a wet bar, and many exotic plants in pots. There was even a pool table in the middle of it!

Still puzzled and intrigued, I went there to take a closer look. The table was ready, with the balls arranged and waiting for someone to break them. It made me wonder how playing such a delicate game in the ocean was even possible. I cautiously pushed one of the balls, and it moved naturally, after which it stopped. I looked under the table and found it equipped with a gyroscope mechanism. Nevertheless, it still seemed stupid because I couldn’t see what difference the steadiness of the table would make if the people playing weren’t steady on their feet. And right then, I unexpectedly noticed something strange near one of the corner pockets.

I walked there to check it out. Four small objects, which I initially took for pieces of rock, were there. When I grabbed them in my hand, however, they glistened with bluish-gray reflections like metal, although they obviously weren’t because their surface felt soft to the touch. They resembled graphite or something. “It’s probably nothing. Someone must have played with them and forgotten them here,” I shrugged at first but then remembered I had a pair of night vision goggles in my shirt pocket. I quickly pulled them out to examine the objects, and despite my skepticism about the gadget, it actually worked. I could see clearly at night, not only between eight a.m. and six p.m.!

Feeling excited that I had bought something from the Chinese bastard that was worth my money, I turned my eyes down, staring at my hand. The pieces looked all the same except that they seemed greenish now. I couldn’t sense any particular smell, but I felt I could scratch them against one another. Since my goggles didn’t help me gather more information, I just put one of the stones in my pocket for further inspection and arranged the others as I found them. The thought that the material might be dangerous briefly flashed across my mind, but I rejected it because they wouldn’t have ditched it so carelessly on the pool table if it were. Then, I finally headed for the gangway to prevent being caught there. The longer I stayed, the greater the chance was, and I didn’t even know yet that it was already too late!

I had just stepped onto the quay and was still looking at the world through my fancy new goggles when a light green shadow crept behind my back and hesitantly stopped at my feet. At first, I thought a cloud was sailing across the moon, but a moment later, when a threatening hand rested on my left shoulder, I knew I was terribly wrong. I sharply turned around, startled, taking off my goggles and praying that it would be Peularia asking me for a threesome with her cute Indian assistant. Unfortunately, it wasn’t them. Fate was much crueler to me, as usual, and I came up against a heavily bearded, bald-headed Indian guy who was so huge that I stared right into his chest. He was the same one who maltreated me when I first met Sengupta at my hotel, and later on, when he and Sharon kissed on this very boat, he guarded the gangway.

“Don’t bother anything. Just start talking.” The man roared after securing his grip on me, his voice as hoarse as a maneuvering fighter jet. And let it be convincing!”

Worriedly, I glanced behind him to see if he was alone. He had no company, and I assumed he was installed here to guard the boat for the night, but he decided to take it easy and have a little chat with some of his fellows on the other vessels. Then I looked back at him.

“Why aren’t you sticking your fucking ass on board?” I grumbled, falsely affected, and secretly placed my right hand closer to my pocket. “Do you really think this is how you’re supposed to guard this property? Is this what you’ve been paid for?”

“What? Who the fuck are you?” The jerk’s eyes bulged in disbelief. He was genuinely shocked to hear me talking like that, which was my plan, in fact. I didn’t even let him finish his stupid curses or whatever he had to say and just grabbed his huge beard with my left hand, pulling it sharply to distract him. With my other hand, I secretly dug into my pocket.

This is actually a classic mistake that every big guy on this planet makes. They all presume to be strong enough and start talking nonsense instead of securing your weapon immediately. In the next second, the Indian tried to squeeze me harder, but long before he figured out why I was caressing his beard, my Luger’s muzzle was already digging into his nostrils. The idiot crossed his eyes to focus them on its tip, and after recognizing the situation, he slowly started pulling his hands away from me.

I silently stepped back and gestured to him to turn around and get down on his knees. He obeyed reluctantly, and when he took the right pose, I aimed for the back of his neck with the gun handle. Since the guy’s head was huge—it was bigger than my ass—and I wasn’t quite sure about the result, I reinforced my strike, supporting my right wrist with my left hand. It proved to be enough. His massive body shook abruptly, and then he collapsed on the ground, unconscious. It happened right at the moment when a cry echoed in the darkness.

I glanced around. An ordinary-looking guy stood hesitantly near one of the other boats, not knowing what to do. He was probably the one who kept the company of my friend here. I quickly raised my hand in the air and waved it so he could see the silhouette of my weapon, and then I walked away. I glanced behind me a few times, but he didn’t dare follow me. Ten minutes later, I was back at my hotel. I had no time to waste, though, because I had another meeting I had to prepare for in just a few hours. My schedule was tight that night, and I really hoped it would start bearing fruit soon!


©2016 S.T. Fargo
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED!
(www.stfargo.com)

 
 
 

Eurasian Gambit—Chapter 24 | a science-fiction crime novel by S.T. Fargo

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