PORT MARKET, EJUBA
"No worries, my friend, the suits and uniforms run thin in da south," said the tooth-scarce man.
The white man nodded. "Aye, 'n these passes will get us into the reservation?"
"Aye," replied the local agent, whose mouth looked equal parts yellow and red, rotted dentin and rotten gums.
White boy passed him a wad of panopa, the name for Samarastan currency. It was probably more than the pass was worth, but overpaying was custom in a country where the wad might lose as much as a fifth of its value by the time the man was able to spend it. Money was worth little in these parts. True value was found and held in things, resources, the jewels of the wilds. Anyway, like the saying went, you gotta spend money to make money. The black man revealed a card from out of his pocket and handed it to his customer. "Dis will get ya through da checkpoints, my friend. Dis an' some panopas."
Sarcasm thinly veiled, the buyer replied, "O' course."
Behind him, one of the others with him scoffed, and interjected, "Supplies. We needs 'em. Where can we buy?"
The local looked at the speaker for a moment, inquisitive face studying him like a curious-looking specimen. Then, a moment later, answered, "Yes, yes, follow me."
Leaving behind them the view of the crystal blue ocean extending to the horizon's edge, the party of three followed through the narrow, winding streets of the port city of Ejuba. A bustling crowd passed them on either side, oftentimes forcing the four men against the wall to let through a merchant with his donkey or a throng of locals on the way to one bazaar or another. Ejuba was one of the commercial havens of the south, a place where people could buy and trade, not just with locals but with foreigners who dared do business in Samarasta's rebellious south. One could buy anything here, even a nuclear warhead by some rumors and accounts. Whatever these boys needed, they'd likely find somewhere beneath the white-paint rimmed windows, balconies, and bridges of the densely constructed harbor metropolis. Above them, the music of religious prayer blared incessantly via loudspeakers on an endless multiplicity of towers throughout the city.
They finally turned into one of the buildings, its entrance hidden by a brick red awning that extended out to almost the other side of the street, overlapping with awnings of countless colors coming from the other side, on top, and beside it. There was a metal gate in front of them, which a guard on the other side opened after short conversation with the local agent who had brought them there. Inside, another man came out and this one too began speaking with the agent, the two of them talking in their local tongue which was sharp and, apparently, spoken loudly.
The back-and-forth shouting continued for some time, but it ended cordially enough when the man who had come out said, in Díenstadi, "Yo, brothas, my friend Abílio tells me you are in da market for supplies. What do ya need?"
"It was a pleasure doin' business, my friends," said their guide, who left through the gate without saying another thing and before any of them could say anything in reply.
The white boy who had led his party's deal with the agent-guide at the port market earlier took the lead in the conversation here too, quickly turning away from where the agent-guide had been before he disappeared back into the busy, dark, narrow street. He looked at the supplies vendor, and replied, "Wha' do ye 'ave?"
The supplies seller chuckled, and responded, "My friend, I have everything: guns, bullets, hunting knives, scalping knives, butchering knives, machetes, bait, traps, water, drugs, food. Whatever ya need, I have or I can get. Understood? You just tell me what ya want and worry about having the panopas to pay for it, yes? You no the first white boys coming here lookin' for supplies." He was still chuckling.
Smiling, the buyer said, "Arrr."
CAFÉ CASSANDRA, TONGOLOSI
"Mabuto is getting worried. He thinks that if the Mittouala isn't tamed and if the rebels grow stronger, Fedor will choose to replace him with someone more amenable to the Kambopushi. Perhaps even a foreigner, like his Marshite whore or another Marshite from among his people. Don't get me wrong, one day I will welcome this foreigner with open arms for delivering us from the chaos of Mabuto, but at the moment the situation threatens us just as much as it does the president. I am sure you understand," said a creoloso wearing the uniform and crossed-swords insignia of an army major general. He looked up above his aviator sunglasses, directly at the man across from him, "Unless you find a solution soon, he will come for you, Zezé."
The man named Zezé cut a piece of his breakfast and ate it, moving it around in his mouth, savoring it like a man who had all the time in the world. His collar showed the four-sworded insignia of captain-general. He looked at the flow of people on the sidewalk for a moment, pensively. Then, "Nobody gives a fuck about the Kambopushi. Fedor knows we don't have the army to put down the rebellion. I doubt even Fedor's army could put it down, not without radical political change. Regardless, we won't be finding out if it could anyway, as I have already requested direct imperial military intervention and I have been denied by their ambassador. I can't even get to a kríerlord. They don't give two shits about what happens in Mittouala, Eutímio"
"Yea, well, Mabuto cares about what happens in Mittouala," said Eutímio.
"So what do I do? I don't have the men. I don't have the power. I don't have the allies." General Zezé Danjuma took another bite of his breakfast.
General Eutímio Boro shrugged. "You have more funding than ever. Why don't you hire some allies?"
"What? Like those lads up in Potthan?" asked Zezé.
Eutímio shrugged again. "Like those lads up in Potthan."
"I'm not sure. Just look at what happened in Killia. Give them a finger and they'll take an arm, methinks," Zezé replied, in between bites. Still, there was something to the idea. What did Zezé have to lose? Maybe he could bring them in to handle something smaller, see how they performed, and expand their contract from there. Best case, Zezé could be a national hero. Worst case, Zezé would be fired — something that seemed like it was to be case unless something changed, anyway.
KINGANA RIVER
After leaving Ejuba, the party of three white boys headed north to the town of Youlila, which sat at the top of the delta area of the Kingana River. Calling it a town was probably a bit of a misnomer, although its riverboat port facility was extensive enough. The three men took one of those boats up the river, toward its mountain source in the Gounkari Reservation. The transparent blue water flowed past them in the opposite direction, toward the south. Along the banks, local men, women, and children fished, washed their clothes and themselves, or played about, hardly giving the white men a second look. There were more and more of them these days, all there for the same reason. The men didn't seem to care about the locals either, preoccupied as they were inspecting their baggage.
In Guffingfordi, they talked among themselves while the boatman focused on driving his craft. The one who had taken the lead back in Ejuba was speaking, saying, "We may needs t' sleep somewhere along the bank overnight afore boardin' the park. They say thar's a major checkpoint jus' south o' the river's entrance into Gounkari, although I be sure we'll hit more lesser checkpoints along the way."
"It'll be a wonder if we 'ave any doubloons left at all aft this trip," said one of the other two.
"They 'ave t' fund thar war somehow, we know that perhaps better than 'em," replied their leader. "Anyway, it'll be worth it at the end. Our booty will sell fer millions upon millions back home. Gods know we've been due t' find some good loot."
'Good loot' had become harder and harder to find and sell since the end of the war. What the Golden Throne knew as the Gothic Slave War, men like these knew as the Last War. Before then, these men would have likely been manning one of the thousands of privately-[pirate-]owned armed warships that had called to Theohuanacu's southern port cities like Palenque and Tiwanaku, laden with wares stolen in raids launched against the weaker states of southern Greater Díenstad. Pirates like these men even sold humans, like the very slave trade with the Scandinvan Empire that had given shape to the Last War to begin with. The profits in piracy had already been threatened by the growth of the empire's political tendrils in Theohuanacu, Holy Panooly, and Indras, but it was squelched entirely after the rebellion and the consequent razing of both strongholds of Palenque and Tiwanaku. Now, with their homes destroyed and their ships at the bottom of the ocean, all men like these knew was poverty and the memories of earlier glory days. Small wonder that so many of them had had the same idea of traveling to Samarasta, where for a fee they could hunt at will within the broad, lush jungle reservation known as Gounkari.
Their riverboat continued moving until the sun began falling and darkness followed. By then, they were out a few thousand panopas more. The rebels had their movement tax infrastructure well placed, with both fixed checkpoints on land and floating riverine checkpoints in the shape of small motorboats filled with gunmen who'd just as well shoot you if you didn't cough up the demanded bribe. Perhaps as much of half of the revenue disappeared into the pockets of the collector and his boss, while the rest was used to buy arms, ammunition, food, medicine, and other supplies for the militias that fought government troops for control of Samarasta's southern region, known as the Mittouala. While the rebels were known collectively as the Kambopushi, the truth was that they were a divided bunch who resisted as much on their own than as an organization.
Overnight, they slept in tents, their boatman with them. The next morning, before the sun even had a chance to crack over the horizon, they were on their way up the river again. In the distance, the tree-covered hills of Gounkari grew taller and taller. Behind them, the Gounkari Mountains towered up until their snow-covered heights were hidden behind a cover of thick white clouds.
Right at the edge of the park's riverine entrance, two large metal towers flanked the river on either side. At the top, each sported a heavy machinegun mounted on an impromptu platform. The crews had the barrel trained down on the riverboats passing through, specifically on this new one carrying the boatman and his three white guests. On a wide platform that extended out from this tower's base, another man and two gunmen behind him ordered the boat to stop. The man barked, "Pass."
The leader of the Theohuacan group revealed the card that they had been sold at the Ejuba port market and handed it over. The man who had asked for it snatched it out of his hands, aggressively looking at it over. He muttered something in his own language and the two guards by him laughed. Then, he handed it back, and said, "You must pay 100,000 panopos to pass."
"100,000 doubloons. Are ye fuckin' kiddin'?" blurted the Theohuacan. "That must be on top o' the 50,000 I must 'ave already paid so far."
"Dat is the fee to pass into da park, sir," replied the man on the platform, calmly.
"Jus' pay the scallywag. We'll make sure t' get our doubloons's worth back," said one of the other Theohuacans on the boat to their leader.
The leader very resentfully took out a wad of cash and passed it over to the checkpoint chief, who handed him back the pass and then waved the boat through.
They continued for some time until any remnants of civilization disappeared behind them and they became immersed in the pure wilderness, untouched by humans. Bird calls of different tones and pitches were joined by the grunting of monkeys, the growls of cats of prey, and a general cacophony of an endless variety of jungle animals. And if there were infinite species of animals, there were even more types of plants with leaves of differing grades of green, as well as red, blue, yellow, and purple, and everything in between. The river's water gave these lands life, and the deeper they went the more the river broke off into little streams that nourished the broader tropical forest. They knew too that somewhere to their north flowed the mighty Nouniaré River, which too originated in the mountains, broke off at the foothills, and instead flowed up to the great border city of Yadiagara.
In between them and the Nouniaré, and beyond that river's far bank, these lands teemed with life. These animals carried prized tusks, teeth, skulls, furs, and other body parts that fetched handsome prices on international markets. There were also diamonds, gold, and other natural resources just waiting to get exploited. During the coming days they'd prowl the jungle expanses of southern Samarasta in search of these riches.
As they quietly hummed upriver, a young linka cub with beautiful striped fur stepped up the shoreline of the opposite bank, dipping its head to drink some water. It peered at them with intimidating upward-looking eyes, careful to know their position but all the same not about to sacrifice the pleasure of drinking water. It was a brave little one, that was for certain. When the young jungle cat finally lifted its head, it licked its lips and only then slowly turned, to disappear back into the foliage.
— suddenly, a shot rang out.
The young cub toppled over, blood staining the dark brown soil as it flooded out from underneath.
A wisp of smoke trailed from the end of a long black metallic barrel. One of the Theohuanacans held the rifle in his hands, his mouth curled in a smile and his eye still looking through the sites as if half-expecting another victim to pop out from behind the treeline. The sound of the gun firing had silenced the jungle, so that only after what seemed like a long minute did the birds start to sing and the wild dogs begin to howl again.
"Blast ye, Ton. 'twas a fuckin' sprog," said another, the leader of the three remaining silent. The boatman looked on with a blank face.
"Ah! Who bloody cares, Jurrijn?" retorted the shooter. "Theun, tell the boatman t' take us t' the shore."
The leader, Theun, looked at him for a while, his face betraying none of the thoughts that must have been racing through his heads. Finally, he turned and instructed the boatman in a broken version of creoloso sakwai, the main language which was spoken there in southern Samarasta. When they were close enough to the black sands of the banks, the one called Ton jumped out, the water up to his ankles. The boatman said something in his own tongue, looking away.
"Wha' did he say?" wondered Ton, who was more preoccupied with the carcass on the floor.
"He said that the river be teemin' wit' fish that shall scuttle a scallywag, especially nigh the edge," said Theun.
But Ton seemed not to listen. He lifted the dead cub by the scrub on its neck. "Beautiful, ain't it?"
"'Twould 'ave been worth more alive," answered Theund. "'Twould 'ave been worth more if it we be older. Scallywags like t' hold cubs, nah wear 'em."
Ton scoffed, and said only, "It doesn't matter now anyway." He took off his shirt and ripped part of it off to make a rag. Using the cloth he tried to clean some of the blood and guts off of the fur. Then, grabbing it by the scruff again, he turned around and handed his phone over to Jurrijn, who had just come off of the boat too. To him, Ton said, "Make yerself useful 'n take a photo o' me wit' me first prize scuttle."
Dimwitted Jurrijn did as he was asked, snapping a few stills of Ton holding the dead links cub to his face from the scruff of its limp, lifeless neck. Minutes after one of those photos was uploaded to Accelafeed, one of the most important social media platforms of Greater Díenstad, it became the photo to go around the world as it was shared and re-shared, flowing along with it emotions of shock, outrage, and anger.
Three days later...
THE LIKUTAT OF TARN, CENTRAL GREATER DÍENSTAD
"The world is up in a rage," said Zezé, "as are the people of Samarasta. The situation calls for drastic and immediate efforts, that is why I am here."
The agent across the tall, square coffee table between them nodded. His front shirt pocket was stitched with the logo of Lourens Consortium. He said, "Of course, whoever killed that cub is the real animal. Listen, General Danjuma, I am completely with you and I'm glad you gave me the opportunity to talk. Trust me, I want to get those assholes as bad as you do, I can guarantee that. And Lourens is the right partner because we are to date the most successful security-services consortium in the region, with a wide variety of resources to draw upon."
"You have experience dealing with this specific problem?" asked the general.
Nodding again, the agent replied, "Not us specifically, but our partners. As a member of the NS PMC Guild, we can tap into the expertise of a number of firms spread around the world. That's the advantage of working with Lourens. Anyway, our consortium is more accustomed to full-scale combat ops and I think we both agree that you're looking for a more tactical, quieter solution. We can put together a specialist team for you."
Zezé looked around the room, first at the bookshelves before glancing at all the awards posted on the agent's wall. "Quite the office you have, Mr. Kramerak," he said.
"Call me Josía, please," replied the agent.
"Josía, then. Tell me, what are those awards for on the wall there?" asked the Samarastan general.
The agent, Josía, looked back at the wall behind him. "Ah! Those! Well, that one" — he pointed to the top-most plaque — "commemorates Tarn Defense Solution's successful contract in Holy Panooly. That one" — pointing to another one — "commemorates Orange-Stoner's operations in Krasnova, during the Second Krasnovan War. We like to celebrate success here. I hope that soon I'll have a plaque to commemorate our victory over illegal poaching in Samarasta."
Zezé remembered Tarn Defense Solution's operations in Holy Panooly declared illegal by the imperial government, but it was Tarn Defense Solutions in that war that fired the cruise missile which killed Dominic Templeton. Templeton was a white supremacist with Panooly blood on his hands, so Zezé was not sad to see the dictator dead. If anything, he commended the company for doing what it had. So, he didn't ask any questions. Neither did he ask about Huron Authority's involvement in Killia and its alleged participation in the New Garrack revolt. It was a business, after all. What mattered was that Lourens and its constituent firms performed well for their clients. The general said as much when he answered, "Lourens has a history of producing results, that is undeniable. You said you'd be using partners outside of the consortium, belonging to the Guild. I'm not sure I like the idea of complicating things. How many heads will I have to coordinate with?"
Josía waved his hands. "No, no, no. General, I would never do that to you. You work through myself and you work strictly with Lourens. Lourens will take ownership of this contract and responsibility for its results. We just want to assemble the best team for the job given our capabilities, resources, and network, which is why we'll be working with the Guild. It's the secret sauce, general. It's the work that happens in the background to make sure we get that plaque on our walls."
"Very well," said Zezé. The Samarastan still wasn't quite sure this was the right decision, but the photo of the dead cub had so enraged the public that his hand was forced. He needed to show an immediate response to the "crisis," as the media had termed it. Besides, the situation proffered Zezé an opportunity for scoring a victory by cracking down on poaching, drawing attention away from the ongoing rebellion. And the only way to accomplish anything in the Mittouala was to bring in outside help. "You have your people fly out to Tongolosi to meet my people. Write up the contract, we'll discuss details, and by the time you're on the return flight we'll be working together. I expect Lourens to make available a high-ranking contact in the capital, preferably military headquarters, to which I have immediate access."
"Of course," replied the Lourens rep. "The leadership of the team we send out will be based in Samarasta and will be working with you every step of the way. You're our client, we're your partner, your success is ours."
"Of course," said the general. "Now, tell me. Is there anything else to see in this city other than glass skyscrapers, barracks, training grounds, and weapons sellers?"
The rep chuckled. "How rude of me. Allow me to give you a tour of the free city before you leave for Samarasta—" the conversation left the matter of business.
In the following days, calls were made, discussions had, and the gears turned so that by the time the contract was signed everything would be in place for Lourens Consortium and the PMC Guild to start preparing for the job in Samarasta. If the world was already inflamed, matters could only get worse. More poachers were coming by the week, goaded both by growing evidence of the spoils and by Samarasta's accessibility through the rebel-controlled south.
Many days later...
OGAMIJI
"Arthur Lathemer?" asked the customs agent, who butchered the name in his thick Samarastan accent.
"Yes," replied the man at his booth, in Díenstadi with a Stevidian accent.
The customs agent looked between the passport photo and the man several times. "What is your business in this country, sir?"
"Business," answered the man.
There was a pop-up flashing up on the agent's computer screen, with some kind of message. The agent read it, then looked back at the man, and then stamped the passport before handing it back. "You are good to go."
Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. He was half-afraid that his banana republic clients hadn't bothered to give him the right visa and clearance level in their immigration system. Hell, he was surprised to have learned that Samarasta even had a customs agency. It wouldn't be the first time he was stuck in an airport on the first day on the job. But, everything up to now had happened quite smoothly. To his surprise, the contract hadn't taken a long time to flesh out or sign. The client had been very accommodating, said Business Development Agent Josía Kramerak. The client wanted the guy in that dead cub photo as dead as the cub. 'It would be nice to get rid of the poaching problem completely,' said Kramerak. 'But, there's a rebellion going on down there so long-term results will be compromised until the government is able to bring that under control.' A rebellion! Well, that was one hell of a detail to drop as casually as Kramerak did. But, hell, what was Arthur to expect from sales scum like Kramerak? All they cared about was the money. The real challenge, how to reach the contract objectives, were always left to operatives like Arthur — always after the contract was signed.
He took a cab to the address he had been given before leaving Tarn. On the ride, he mused about the name he had been given. Arthur Lathemer. Stevidian. It was a challenging accent to master, but 'Arthur' was accustomed to playing parts by now. Operatives like him never used their real identity, the potential legal liability was too high. In fact, to almost everyone else, he'd be known only as "Task Force Lead L."
"Mr L., welcome," said the Samarastan military office waiting for him at the building addressed to this destination. It looked like some kind of old coastal fortress, with beautiful architecture in an old colonial style. Arthur was greeted at the entrance by an attendant, who escorted him to a large room on the second story. The room faced the beach, which behind its glowing sands lay the sparkling blue ocean.
"You must be Colonel Balduíno Pereira," said Arthur, in response.
Pereira was leaning against a large wooden table in the center of the room, and laid out on the surface of the table was a map of the Gounkari Forest Wildlife Preserve with sides almost rolling off the edges of the tabletop. On one of the walls, there were photos of random men in what looked like the preserve. Arthur suspected they were known perps. He recognized one of them as the man in the photo with the dead cub. A salt-rich ocean breeze flowed in from the open window carrying with it the sounds of squawking seagulls flying about the harbor and beach. It seemed to push Pereira off his perch, as he fully stood up and extended his hand to shake Arthur's. Smiling, he said, "That's me! You are the first of your team to arrive."
Excellent, thought Arthur.
Pereira pointed to two other guys in the conference room with him. Both were seated at a desk in the back, looking at a laptop screen. "Those are Lieutenants Boluwatife and Temitope. They have been attached to our team as guides, you, your team, and they will get to know each other well in the coming weeks. They are just looking over some of the latest data before the rest of you arrive. We'll do a whole debrief."
"Good," replied Arthur. He looked at the colonel, and added, "So, what's your role here?"
The Samarastan chuckled. "I am General Danjuma's principal liaison with Lourens and the PMC Guild. My job is to communicate the Samarastan government's priorities to the team on the ground and, of course, to report back on your progress. Also, you can see me as a resource to the rest of Samarasta's public resources, including any help or aid we may need from other departments, whether that be national intelligence, local police, or the military apparatus."
"Good," was all that Arthur said. He thought for a moment. He had seen very few Macabéans in the city. He asked, "How involved is the Golden Throne in this?"
Colonel Pereira shrugged. "Very little to not at all, as far as I know. Their garrison is in Tongolosi, in the north. They hardly venture this far south, apart from small intelligence and security detachments designed to oversee the customs process. Ordenites, they fear, will infiltrate the country to sabotage the imperial and Samarastan governments. It's about Fustera and Tupenga. Little to do with us, the Gounkari, and the rebels on the other side of that jungle."
"Good." Then, Arthur asked, "Tell me about the rebels. Are they present in the reserve?"
"As I said, I'll give you a full debrief this evening," said the Samarastan colonel. "The short of it is that the rebels operate south of the reserve and north to Jakeja. Jakeja is firmly in government control, thanks to a few imperial destroyers docked there, but Yadiagara and Ejuba are practically administered by the rebels. Our poachers come in mostly through Ejuba, where they hire guides who know how to navigate the south and can escort these poachers to the reserve itself. I'll explain more fully later, but our objective is not to solve the rebellion. The insurgents are a problem only to the extent that they encroach on parklands to either attack government forces in Ogamiji or to interrupt our anti-poaching operations. Otherwise, our primary operational mission is to neutralize illegal poachers in the park, and really to get some good video and photo rolls for the press."
"Good," said Arthur, characteristically.
The two of them continue to talk about the situation some more, eventually passing on to other things — the beautiful weather, beautiful girls, local restaurants and bars, the wars in Tupenga, Sorofi, Ladero, and Ralkovia, and the virtues of Cerfonlandi wines — while they waited for the rest of the team to arrive.
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OOC: To learn more about the NS PMC Guild or to contract its services, visit its main thread.
